


Totality

by Rheanna



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blindness, Gen, Season/Series 01, Wordcount: Over 50.000, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-06-30
Updated: 1999-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 64,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rheanna/pseuds/Rheanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At totality, anything can happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning including a story spoiler: I haven't tagged this story with the warning 'Major character death' as it does not feature the deaths of any of the regular SG1 characters. However, the story does feature the death of one of the main original characters.

**Prologue**

The night was close and hot. Those were the only constant features of the forest's climate. In the year there were seasons of rain and seasons of mist, seasons of growth and seasons of decay, but the jungle's heat and humidity were ever present. The air was heavy and moist. It sank through the tree canopy and settled over the forest floor like a sodden blanket.

Dicenos lay on his back at the edge of the empty circle of earth at the heart of the rainforest. Around him, he could hear the faint swishing of the lightest of breezes as it rustled the tree tops' slim branches. From time to time, those soothing whispers were interrupted by the piercing hoot of a nocturnal creature on the hunt.

He had come here to dream and, having dreamt, sleep now eluded him. So he lay still, luxuriating in the warmth the ground had captured from the sun's rays during the day.

The Circle was his people's holy place, but the clearing would have held a fascination for Dicenos even if it had not been. This empty space was the only place outside the village where the ever-present forest canopy broke open, allowing an unrestricted view of the sky above. Dicenos stretched on the dusty earth, studying the shapes in the heavens above him.

The constellations offered him the reassurance of the familiar. He recalled learning from his father how to find and name them. That had been a long time ago, and his father was many seasons gone.

Dicenos blinked and gazed up at the stars. There was the Great Oak, three bright stars forming the trunk, topped by a plethora of smaller, fainter lights which marked its branches. Its smaller twin, the Sapling, was by its side, as always. The River, the bright trail of stars which mimicking the meandering bends of the water-course on whose banks Dicenos' village sat, was particularly clear tonight. It flowed with celestial dignity through the gap between the large and small moons. And in the most distant corner of the sky, the Snake was visible, a hissing, malignant presence outlined against the blackness beyond.

See the Snake, touch the Stones.

That was the rhyme the village children sang to one another; it had not altered since Dicenos had been a boy. He was far too old for such childish games, and yet...

He reached out a hand in the darkness, and found the base of the nearest Stone. The rock was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, reassuringly protective. There were nineteen Stones in all, outlining the circle at the edge of which Dicenos lay. The Stones were the tribe's protectors, their sentinels. The means by which they had escaped danger once, and perhaps the means by which they would escape it again.

That was why he could not go back to sleep. He had come here to ask for answers from the Stones and in their generosity they had responded through his dreams. Dicenos withdrew his hand and shivered, in spite of the heat.

Cerian had objected strongly when he had informed the council of his intended expedition. He was no longer, she had reminded him, a young warrior, and could not hope to out-run or fend off any of the many local carnivores he might encounter. But he had insisted and eventually, because he was the tribe's leader, she and the other members of the council had relented. He knew, however, that the village would enjoy little rest this night until he returned safely to them.

It was a risk, Cerian had said, and he was too old and too valued to take such risks. She would want to know when he returned if the risk had been worth it, if the Stones had spoken.

He must consider what he would tell her.

He would tell her that yes, they had spoken: that was the truth. But the question then became, how much to share. How much to reveal.

The Stones had spoken. They had showed him images. Some he understood, some he did not. He had seen another stone circle, standing in a summer's field of gently rippling grasses. He had seen the sun blacken and hide its face in the middle of the day. He had seen strangers arrive, out of the forest.

All of this, he decided, he would tell.

But then there were the dreams he would not tell. The ones in which the village burnt. The ones in which the child-which-was-not descended from above the tree-canopy, with the lust for death glittering in its beady bird's eyes. And then the final dream, from which he had woken with the conviction that the council would soon need another leader.

No, it would not be wise to share those details with Cerian. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He blinked and sat up. He would not sleep again tonight, and he had learnt all that he needed to know. He would not disturb the Stones further.

Dicenos got to his feet, massaging the feeling back into his sore, old limbs. As he left the Circle, he looked upwards one final time. The two moons, one nearly full, one a thin crescent, looked back down at him. He nodded, acknowledging the sky's benevolent gaze.

Then he slipped through the dense green wall surrounding the Circle, and back into the forest.

**Part I**

  


**The Stone Dancers**

**One**

_Credenhill, near Hereford, in England Monday August 9, 1999_

Outside the window of the Brigadier's office, the evening was rainy and still, the sun's light hazy and indistinct as the yellow star sank out of view behind the English countryside's gentle, rolling hills. An empty cup, rimmed at the bottom with the faintest residue of the long since drunk tea it had contained, sat on the desk, next to a plate spread with biscuits, untouched on top of the paper doily on which the Brigadier's secretary had presented them, along with the brigadier's apologies. Chocolate digestives, custard creams, jaffa cakes.

The cupboard set into the wall opposite the desk had been opened, revealing the small television inside. The sound was low, but the voices distinct in the otherwise quiet air.

"...the Prime Minister will make a live broadcast to the nation this evening to appeal for the mass influx of people into Cornwall to cease. It is estimated that in the past seven days more than two and a half million eclipse watchers have flooded into the region, placing an intolerable strain on basic and emergency services. The Prime Minister is expected to announce that from midnight tonight, all routes into Cornwall will be blockaded. However, it is unlikely that the most determined visitors will be dissuaded from missing a celestial show which will not be repeated in the United Kingdom until the end of the next century.

"Other news: in Northern Ireland, the peace process today looked more fragile than ever as..."

"Aha." The door opened and the Brigadier strode into the study, removing his hat and jacket and hanging them with a swift, neat movement over an empty peg on the wooden stand by the bookshelf. "Major Caliburn. I apologise for my tardiness. The traffic on the road up from London was appalling. It feels as if the entire south of the country has ground to a standstill." He glanced at the open cupboard, the television within. "I'm glad to see you've had the initiative to make yourself at home. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

Rhys Caliburn lifted the television remote and pressed the off button, reducing the face of the pretty newsreader to a tiny white dot in the centre of the screen. He pushed the cupboard doors together, hiding the television behind two flush panels of evenly grained walnut. Credenhill had been an RAF station before the Special Air Services had adopted it as headquarters and the oldest parts of the property retained the atmosphere of a well-maintained country retreat.

"I was held up on the drive here myself, sir," he said. Caliburn's Welsh lilt had softened in the years since he had left his home, but it had not vanished. The accent travelled with him, a mark of his origins which he carried wherever he went. It served to remind him that no matter how far he travelled, there was still a place where he belonged. Although he had not been back there for a long time, and sometimes he wondered if he still did. "It's quite all right."

The Brigadier nodded in acknowledgement and sat, indicating that Rhys should take the chair opposite. He waited for the younger man to settle, fingering the manila folder which he had brought with him from London. "Major Caliburn..." he began, and paused, steepling his fingers together in front of his face.

Rhys waited patiently.

"This eclipse is going to be quite something," the Brigadier remarked.

Caliburn's left eyebrow twitched. Whatever else he had expected, casual chit-chat had not been high on the list of possibilities.

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "Although I'm no astronomer myself."

The Brigadier smiled wryly. "I think you'll find that not many of those two million odd people down in Cornwall at the minute are either, Major. Occasions like this... have a certain intrinsic sense of import. It draws the crowds."

"Yes, sir."

The Brigadier paused again, then appeared to rouse himself, opening the file in front of him and flipping through it quickly. "Your patrol- Sheldrick, Hart, Doyle- have they enjoyed their leave?"

"The men always enjoy some downtime but... they're ready to get back into action, sir," said Rhys carefully. Added to himself, and so am I.

"Good. That's good." Another pause, longer this time. The Brigadier appeared to be in the throes of some internal debate. Rhys frowned. What was this about? "Major, I have been placed in a position with which I am not altogether happy."

Caliburn waited. He had reported to the Brigadier on a face to face basis for more than eight years, and had heard much about the man before that. In all that time, Rhys had never known him to criticise orders from further up in the army's hierarchy in front of men under his command, had never even heard rumours of it from others. He sensed that he was witnessing something which was, in its own small way, as momentous as the approaching eclipse. He wondered what had been discussed at that meeting which had delayed his CO.

"The Ministry," continued the Brigadier shortly, "in spite of much good advice to the contrary, has decided to proceed with a series of... tests. They are to take place in Cornwall. During the totality of the eclipse."

Unsure how else to react, Rhys nodded.

"Apparently, the research team has been preparing for Wednesday's eclipse for quite some time. However it has only become apparent in recent weeks that the level of public interest is even higher than anticipated." He spread his hands: "I am told that Cornwall's water and sewage system is capable of bearing the needs of two million people. There are half as many again there right now. You are probably aware that the Third Division has already been deployed to help the regional police and emergency services."

"I had heard something to that effect."

"Then you will appreciate that this is not the ideal time to carry out classified testing. Yet the decision has been taken to proceed. And I have been asked to lend a patrol to the project for the duration. Your patrol."

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"Of course."

Rhys spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "While I appreciate the need for a military presence, I don't see the necessity of involving the SAS when the Third is already on the ground. Cornwall isn't enemy territory."

"Perhaps I should clarify the situation. The Ministry has not only requested your presence during the tests: they also want your participation."

Participation. There was something about the tone in which the Brigadier ended the sentence which made Rhys feel distinctly uneasy. "May I enquire as to the nature of the tests, sir?"

"You may enquire," said the Brigadier stiffly, and Caliburn realised that he had stumbled on the heart of the matter: "But I may not respond. The full briefing is to be held when you arrive on site. After you've met the Americans."

"The Americans?"

"A team from NORAD. They are coming to observe the tests." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "In fact, they should be en route by now. They're due to land at RAF Lyneham in the early hours of tomorrow morning. You will rendezvous with them there and accompany them to the site. Jane will make sure you have an itinerary before you leave."

Something told Rhys that the 'you' being addressed was singular. "And my men?"

"Separate arrangements have been made for them." The Brigadier spoke sharply, then caught himself. "My apologies, Major Caliburn. I have... reservations about this situation. I do not like men under my command being placed entirely at the disposal of civilian authorities. I do not like this... external interference, even from the Americans. Especially from the Americans. I do not like issuing orders in an information vacuum."

"Then may I suggest that you don't issue them?" Rhys sat back in the chair, forced himself to appear to relax. "Brigadier, I would like to volunteer myself and my patrol for the assignment under discussion."

The Brigadier hesitated, then nodded. "So noted." Abruptly, he stood up, pushing down on the edge of the wide oak desk as he did so. "You would be well advised to brief your patrol this evening, Major. Your schedule as of tomorrow morning is tight."

"Very well, sir."

"Dismissed."

Caliburn turned to go, then stopped at the sound of the voice behind him: "Tell them..."

He looked back.

"Tell them the mission involves reconnaissance."

Rhys nodded. "Yes, sir."

_Reconnaissance? In Cornwall? In the middle of an eclipse?_

_What the hell did I just sign us up for?_

**Two**

"Black in the corner pocket. Off both cushions."

Andy Sheldrick screwed green chalk into the tip of his cue, pretending not to look in Hart's direction as he did so. In the corner of the games room, a television set blared out edited highlights of Newcastle versus Chelsea in the Premier League. The soccer match was reaching its decisive moments and Andy, whose lifelong commitment to Queen and country was rivalled only by a similar lifelong passion for Newcastle United Football Club, tried not to let it spoil his concentration.

Sergeant Derek Hart shook his head smugly. "Not possible, mate. Angles are all wrong."

Sheldrick made a derisory noise at the back of his throat. "Lad, I was playing pool in the pubs of Tyne and Wear when you were yelling to have your nappy changed. Stand back and watch a master at work."

Stepping back from the pool table, he leaned over, tensing his left hand so that the cue rested in the bony hollow between his knuckles. The age difference between himself and the two youngest members of the patrol was not nearly as extreme as the many running jokes concerning it. True, Sheldrick was older than the rest of his patrol- and looked it too, he thought ruefully- but he wasn't ready to collect his pension yet. In the meantime, Andy had no aversion to making the case for maturity and experience on a regular basis.

On the telly, Burt passed to Ferguson, who moved neatly in past Chelsea's defensive formation. Determinedly, Sheldrick focused on the table. Played the predictions game. Newcastle will equalise, and I am going to pot this bloody black and wipe that smug grin off his face.

He pulled the cue back, eased it forward, pulled back again. Nice and easy. Ferguson had passed to Shearer, who was nearing the goal mouth. Andy relaxed his shoulder muscles, kept the hands rigid, pictured the white ball sliding forward, bouncing off the green baize, hitting the black... He breathed out.

Thunk.

The white ball exploded from the tip of the cue, ricocheting off the cushion towards the black. On the screen, Shearer made a strike for the goal. The match commentator was breathless and gushing. Sergeant Hart was standing back, holding a can of lager, one eyebrow raised.

The white ball hit the black, which rolled in the exact direction of the pocket... then slowed, and stopped precisely on its lip, teetering without falling. At the same time, Shearer's kick sent the football squarely into the goalkeeper's arms. Seventy nine minutes played, and Newcastle were still one-nil down.

"Not your night," observed Hart with a grin, stepping forward and administering the simple tap required to knock the black into its final resting place and take the game.

"Shut up," Andy told him, but without rancour. "That's still three-two to me."

"Now there's a coincidence," noted Corporal Doyle from his position on the elderly, shapeless sofa at the far side of the room: "It was three-two to Chelsea as well."

Hart grinned and lifted his can to Doyle in a mock salute. Sheldrick threw his cue down on to the table in disgust. "Oh, thank you. Thank you very bloody much, Doyle. Do I creep round in the middle of the night and fill out your crosswords for you? No. So is it too much to ask that I might possibly, once every so often, get to see the highlights without you spoiling it completely?"

Doyle did not raise his head from his book, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he bent his long legs so that his feet no longer jutted out over the far end of the couch. Andy wondered if the Corporal ever got fed up with living a world designed for short people. No bed or bath was ever quite big enough to accommodate his lanky frame, and Sheldrick was by now accustomed to waking in the morning to find him fast asleep on the floor next to whatever insufficiently long bed he had been assigned.

At twenty eight, the Corporal was the youngest member of the patrol, and although he had over ten years' experience, he still had the appearance of a gangly adolescent. He spent a lot of time off duty in the weights room trying, Andy supposed, to acquire a more impressive physique. It wasn't necessary: Doyle could walk eight miles wearing a full pack in less time than most of his colleagues took to run the distance. Sheldrick had been astonished by, and grateful for, his endurance on more than one occasion.

Doyle turned the page and settled back into his book. From where he was standing, Sheldrick could just make out the bright colours of what looked like a map inserted into the text.

"Whatcha reading, Doyle?"

Doyle folded the book shut, marking his place in it with a thumb, and held it up so that the front cover was clearly visible. It was, Andy saw, yet another of Doyle's seemingly endless supply of books on travel. This one was called Italian Journeys. Andy grinned indulgently. "Planning your next leave?"

"I'm not due any until October."

"You could get there sooner if you could persuade someone in the government to declare war on Italy," suggested Hart.

Doyle's head vanished as he sank lower into the sofa's cushions, returning to his book. Sheldrick grinned at Hart and dug another twenty pence piece out of his pocket and stuck it into the slot at the side of the pool table, watching as the red and yellow balls rolled down the chute which was visible through the glass panel in the table's side. "Rematch," he challenged.

"Evening, gentlemen."

Andy looked up, saw the Major standing in the Rec Room doorway, and responded automatically, stiffening into a pose which, despite the generous amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, was a fair approximation of attention. On the other side of the table, Sergeant Hart was doing much the same thing, while the squeaking of ancient springs from the battered sofa behind him testified to Corporal Doyle's reaction.

"God, you lot would make my old drill Sergeant weep." The humour in Caliburn's Welsh lilt was unmistakable. "But at this time of the evening, I should be grateful you're all capable of achieving the vertical. At ease. Good night, I take it?"

Sheldrick grinned. "Yes, sir. We were sorry you couldn't join us."

"So was I, but there was a reason. I've just seen the Brigadier. We're back on active, as of tomorrow morning."

"About bloody time," growled Hart.

"Don't get too excited, Sergeant. You haven't heard where we're going yet."

Hart rolled his eyes. "Oh God. Not the desert again." With ginger hair and skin as pale as the white of a fried egg, Hart baked in the sun. He had been hospitalised with sunstroke in the Gulf, and had never lived it down. His face flushed red within hours of exposure, then burnt, and the rash of freckles scattered liberally across his nose and cheeks glowed lividly for months after the initial damage healed, making him look like a naughty schoolboy. The slight chubbiness which persisted around his face did nothing to dispel the impression. "Babyface" was among the gentler nicknames Hart had earned during his time in the patrol; to his credit he bore the constant stream of good-natured abuse with stoicism.

Caliburn almost smiled. "Nothing like it. We're going exploring... in Cornwall."

Andy blinked. "Sir?"

"A civilian science team wants to borrow a patrol for a week, and we're the lucky guinea pigs."

"Guinea pigs for what, sir?" asked Doyle from the sofa.

Caliburn's expression flickered, the easy manner returning within the briefest of moments, but Sheldrick caught the interlude and exchanged a look with Hart. "The details haven't come through yet. We'll be briefed when we get there." He paused. "You should also be aware... the Yanks are sending over a military team to observe. The Brig wants us to liaise with them. So it's best behaviour and no farting at meals, Sergeant."

Hart feigned innocence. "Me, sir? Surely not, sir?"

The Major smiled, then nodded briskly. "You're going straight to the site in Cornwall to meet the scientists. I'll meet you there after I collect the Yanks from Lyneham. Be ready to move out at 0600 tomorrow. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Hart waited until he had gone before relaxing his posture, slumping against the edge of the pool table. He looked at Sheldrick and Doyle. "You know what this is?" he said: "Bloody babysitting scientists and Americans."

Doyle was wearing a puzzled expression. "There's going to be an eclipse," he remarked softly, almost to himself. "How do you observe anything in the dark?"

**Three**

_Tuesday August 10_

On any other day, Rhys would have allowed no more than two hours for the drive from Credenhill to RAF Lyneham, but the previous evening's news, with its reports of gridlock as far north as Bath, convinced him to set off even earlier than he had planned. He was awake and in the shower at twelve minutes past five, rubbing the shampoo in his palms into a generous lather on his scalp. He rinsed himself off and padded back into the bedroom of his quarters, dripping as he went. The room was tidy, even spartan. Rhys had been based at Credenhill for nearly six months, but somehow he never seemed to find the time to personalise his surroundings. It didn't seem worth the effort. These quarters were not home.

Once dry, he retrieved a clean uniform from the wardrobe and dressed: underwear, trousers, then finally the shirt, which he buttoned up over the small cross-shaped mark which stood out like a brand on his lower abdomen. More than one person had taken it to be the scar of an old wound incurred in conflict, but the truth was more mundane: the birthmark ran in the Caliburn family with the same persistence as the waves of dark hair Rhys had inherited from his mother's side. His paternal grandmother had claimed the mark was proof that the family carried Druid blood. Rhys had his doubts about that, but it made for interesting pillow-talk.

He was driving through Hereford as the first grey light of dawn began to suffuse the eastern horizon, listening to Today on Radio Four for company. At the 6.30 timecheck, he glanced at his watch. Sheldrick, Hart and Doyle should be taking off about now; the Americans should be landing.

Although there were undoubtedly more vehicles travelling south than would have been normal, it was sufficiently early in the morning that he experienced no delays on the way to Lyneham. He arrived shortly before eight o'clock, and by a quarter past eight he was standing outside the open door of the barracks canteen, having been directed there by the duty Sergeant when he had enquired after the Americans. "What do they look like?" Caliburn had asked.

The Sergeant had grinned. "I don't think you'll have any trouble picking them out, sir."

He had been right about that. The mess hall was empty, the base's permanent residents having been and gone before the visitors had arrived. But even if the hall had been packed, Rhys doubted he would have had difficulty locating his charges. They were attacking the breakfast which had been provided with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and a conversation was in full flow. Odd vowel sounds rang out across the canteen, jarring with the gentle burr of the kitchen staff in the background. No one had yet noticed his presence, and Rhys hung back for a moment, curious.

"Frome. Shepton Mallet. Thruxton Grately." The speaker, a lean man somewhere in his forties, was holding down a map with one hand while spearing food on to the tines of his fork with the other. The haircut and the bearing said military, although he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and slung his uniform jacket over the back of his chair with something less than military precision. "Are these places or diseases?" Rhys squinted at the jacket and recognised the wings of a USAF Colonel on the sleeve.

"How can you face that at this time of the morning?"

The younger man across the table, dressed in unmarked fatigues, was spreading margarine thinly on a slice of brown toast and eyeing the contents of the plate opposite him with unease.

"How can you survive until lunch on that?" The Colonel gestured with the fork. "It was this or cereal. The choice was pretty limited. No bagels, no pancakes, no hash browns... although the sausage kinda makes up for it. This is damn good sausage. Teal'c, try some."

"Don't do it, Teal'c. You'll get cholesterol poisoning and Junior will die."

They were both addressing the third man at the table. Rhys had been studying him curiously for some time already. A black man with a powerful physique, he might have stepped straight out of a US Marines recruitment campaign. But, like his younger companion, his uniform was unmarked. Bizarrely, he was wearing a black, close-fitting hat pulled down so low on his forehead that it almost hid his eyebrows.

Teal'c was regarding the lump on the end of the proffered fork with deep suspicion. "What is this, O'Neill?"

At this, the fourth member of the party, an attractive blonde woman, looked up from her grapefruit with a smile which suggested this kind of bizarre interchange was not uncommon. She was wearing her jacket, the double bars of a Captain in plain view. "Word to the wise, Teal'c: if you're going to eat that, you probably don't want to know what's in it. Or how it's made."

This appeared to sway the odd Mr Teal'c. "Thank you, O'Neill, but my..." he paused, as if the word was unfamiliar: "...cereal is sufficient."

Rhys shook his head in disbelief. Who were these people? Californians?

O'Neill pointed the fork, and the lump of sausage meat, at the Captain in what seemed to be mock irritation. "Oh, thank you, Carter. Spoil my continuing efforts at cultural acclimatisation, why don't you."

The response which the Captain opened her mouth to make was drowned out by a sudden explosion of violent sneezing from the young man. Dropping his toast, he turned his head away from the table and buried his mouth and nose in a wad of paper tissues. "Sorry," he said when the fit had passed: "Travel allergy." He rolled the used tissues into a bundle and began to cast about for a fresh supply.

The Captain produced a small packet of travel handkerchiefs from somewhere on her person and handed it to the young man, while the Colonel shook his head sceptically. "How can you be allergic to travel? Pollen, dogs- those are things people are allergic to. But travelling?"

"I'm not allergic to travel per se. Travelling aggravates all my other allergies-" Abruptly, he started sneezing once more.

"Danny, you spend your whole life travelling."

The sneezing was almost under control again. "All the more reason not to have to make long-haul plane trips at ten minutes' notice," he complained. "And I still haven't heard a good explanation why we're here."

"We are here, Daniel, to enjoy an all expenses paid vacation on good ol' Uncle Sam."

Carter looked at O'Neill wryly. "Strange, that wasn't what I heard the General say at the briefing. As I recall, what he said was, liaise with the British and..."

"...And ascertain whether the monument could conceivably function as a Gate," completed the Colonel, "the answer to which depends on three simple questions. Is it made of Naquada? No. Does it glow blue and wobble in the middle? No. Is it inscribed with those neat hieroglyphs Danny here gets so excited about? No. Is it therefore a Stargate? No. The prosecution rests its case, and SG-1 gets a few days of leisure and a ringside seat for the best celestial show since Hale-Bopp."

Rhys stepped forward, covering the distance to the Americans' table in a few strides. "The general opinion is that the eclipse will be a good deal more impressive than the comet," he said mildly, and gave a smart salute. "Major Rhys Caliburn. Welcome to England, sir."

Instantly, O'Neill was on his feet, returning the salute, Captain Carter only slightly slower off the mark. Mr Teal'c stood and inclined his head in what was clearly a gesture of respect, and Daniel wiped his fingers on a bundle of clean tissues before offering a hand to be shaken. Rhys passed on that.

"A pleasure to be here, Major. I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill." O'Neill indicated the other observers in turn: "This Captain Doctor Samantha Carter, Doctor Daniel Jackson, Mr Teal'c."

No rank for Jackson, noted Rhys, which did not surprise him: the haircut alone (well, lack of it) was enough to convince him that the young man was not military. As for Mr Teal'c, who looked and acted like a soldier but who had neither a TITLE nor, apparently, a Christian name... that one he couldn't figure just yet.

Rhys looked to the table, where a forlorn lump of sausage lay spiked on the end of a fork, and a limp slice of toast sagged off the side of Dr Jackson's plate. "Please don't allow me to interrupt your breakfast. I'm going to make sure the helicopter is being made ready to take us down to Penzance. We'll be on our way within the hour."

"Cool," said O'Neill. Rhys looked at him. Cool was not a word he expected the nearly middle-aged to use with such an obvious lack of self-consciousness.

"I expect so," he agreed, and began to make his way back to the canteen door, noting in the periphery of his vision as he did so that while Carter, Jackson and Mr Teal'c had resumed their places at the table, O'Neill was walking behind him.

Caliburn stopped, turned around abruptly. "And if it is a Stargate?" he asked. Not sure why he said it. Not sure what reaction he would get.

The Colonel looked at him, his face suddenly cautious and closed. "Isn't that your decision, Major? We're just here to... observe."

Rhys nodded, and left. As he exited the canteen, he was dimly aware that O'Neill was standing in the doorway, watching him go, and he wondered which of them had given away more in that last exchange.

* * *

"Can you believe the Air Force signs off on his pay cheques?" Jack gestured with amused theatricality in the direction of Daniel as the archaeologist retched into a long, thin paper bag. "How embarrassing is that?"

The helicopter bounced and rocked in what the pilot had called "some small degree of turbulence". Either that had been conclusive evidence of the famous British predilection for understatement, or the guy had just been plain wrong. Jack was currently trying to decide which.

Carter patted Daniel sympathetically on the shoulder with one hand, while relieving him of the sick-bag with the other. "This is worse than the plane," he said, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back against the green painted metal of the Chinook's interior wall. "Are we nearly there yet?" He sounded, thought Jack, like a kid in the back seat of the car on a long vacation drive.

O'Neill checked his watch. "Another thirty minutes should do it."

"Oh God."

Taking pity on him, Jack unstrapped himself, got up and walked- or, more accurately, hopped and swayed- across the pitching floor to sit beside the archaeologist. "Try looking out the window. It'll help."

"No it won't."

"Carter, tell him."

"Motion sickness can be alleviated by focusing on something steady in the distance. The ground will work as well as anything, Daniel. And it's quite a sight."

One eye opened, warily. Then Daniel manoeuvred himself around under the webbing which held him in position, craning his neck to look out of the one of the helicopter's small porthole-type windows.

Below them, Cornwall sped past, the rolling green countryside punctuated by rivers and the occasional small lake, glinting in the morning sun. O'Neill, who had seen parts of pretty much everywhere on the face of the planet from the air, was nevertheless struck by how organised the patchwork of fields was, how compact the land, how tidy. His first training flights had been made in the wide open skies above the Midwest's endless, sprawling prairies, where towns were tenuously linked by thin, meandering roads like pearls on a fine gold chain. Here, the towns and villages were squashed together, tessellated up against each other in order to make the best use of the severely limited space available. And the names on the map- St Austell, Truro, Redruth, Camborne: they were old names, spoken and refined by the tongues of a hundred generations. This was an old land, with a heritage which spanned not hundreds of years but thousands.

No wonder the damn Brits had such a superiority complex.

"It's like Woodstock three down there," said Daniel, temporarily distracted from his nausea.

"Yeah," agreed O'Neill, "except with more mud and longer lines for the john."

Carter unhooked her belt and lurched across the aisle to join them; after a moment Teal'c followed her.

"The radio said two and half million people," she remarked, gazing at the fields filled with brightly coloured tents. The roads between them were jammed with cars and caravans like coloured candies arranged by a meticulous child. The overall effect was as if someone had lifted the whole island by the Scottish end, and allowed the bulk of the population to slide southwards. "God, it must be standing room only."

There was a click and a hiss from the front of the cabin and the hatch to the Chinook's cockpit swung open. Caliburn's face, almost completely obscured by helmet, headset and goggles, appeared around its edge. "Landing in ten. Time to strap in, please." He was speaking loudly and distinctly in order to make himself heard over the roar of wind at his back.

O'Neill nodded to show he had understood, thinking that the Major sounded like one of the better varieties of British nanny, polite but implacable. He crossed the aisle to return to his seat, watched Daniel struggle through the one hundred and eighty degree turn away from the window, twisting his straps. Carter reached over to free him, catching O'Neill's gaze as she did so. Her eyes flicked to the now-closed hatch where the Welsh Major had been standing. "Sir?"

Jack shook his head. "Tell you later." Hoped he wouldn't have to. Hoped he had misread the other man. Doubted it.

The big, twin-bladed Chinook began its descent towards Penzance.

* * *

_Whupwhupwhup_

_Whup-whup-whuppa-whup-ahh_

Lieutenant Andy Sheldrick watched the heavy blades mounted on the Chinook's front rotor beat the air with a steadily slowing rhythm, and the force five hurricane pushing him backwards so hard that he was leaning into it at an acute angle just to stay on his feet eased to nothing more than a steady gale. By the time the front doors opened and Caliburn hopped down onto the grass, the wind tousling Sheldrick's hair was little more than a light breeze.

A few seconds later, the aft hatch slid backwards and the Americans appeared. Sheldrick glanced sideways at Sergeant Hart. "Bloody hell," whispered the Sergeant out of the corner of his mouth, "Talk about your mixed bag."

The Major approached, and Sheldrick fired off a rapid salute, which was accepted with a polite nod of acknowledgement. The Americans gathered behind him; one of them, a shaggy-haired man about Hart's age, was wobbling slightly on his feet and had a greenish tinge to his complexion. "Smooth flight?" enquired Andy.

Caliburn shot him a look which clearly said, play nicely.

"A little bumpy in places," said the Major. He turned to the man now standing at his side: "Colonel O'Neill, this is my patrol- Lieutenant Andrew Sheldrick, Sergeant Derek Hart, Corporal Craig Doyle."

"It's a pleasure," said the Colonel easily, and introduced his people. Within moments, Andy found himself shaking hands with each of the observers in turn. Jackson's grip was clammy, that of Captain Carter cool and firm, and when he got to the unusually named Mr Teal'c...

Sheldrick stood, one hand hovering in empty air, feeling foolish. He looked up at the right moment to catch the Colonel waggling his eyebrows meaningfully first at the man at his side, then Andy's hand. Sheldrick shook hands with Teal'c, and winced.

O'Neill clapped his hands together and rubbed them against each other in a gesture of exaggerated anticipation. "So what's the plan?"

Andy pointed in the direction of a sloping path of trampled grass which led up the field in which the helicopter had landed, towards the next meadow. At the crest of the hill, a low white canvas dome was visible as it flapped in the light breeze. "We were asked to escort you to the site as soon as you arrived, sirs."

"Lead on," said O'Neill, and they threaded their way in single file through the long summer grasses.

**Four**

The first thing O'Neill said once inside the tent was: "God. It's Stonehenge for munchkins."

There were nineteen stones in all, and none was taller than himself. They were arranged in what appeared to be a fairly accurate circle, although there was a gap at the eastern side of the ring. Whether this was an intentional feature, an entrance of some sort, or whether a stone had been removed at some point in the distant past was impossible to tell.

Jack had never really understood the appeal of ancient monuments, even before his life had twisted in a direction which frequently involved being chased or shot at while running around some particularly fine examples of them. Stars and planets which kept perfect geometry under the inexorable influence of unseen forces impressed him; rocks which sat in imperfect geometry, and only then because someone had spent a hell of a lot more time than was psychologically healthy putting them there, did not. He could just about see how, on a misty morning, or in the warm glow of the evening sun, these nineteen flawed and weathered obelisks could adopt a certain mien of mystery. However, under the roof of the canvas marquee above them, and with tarpaulin sheets spread around and between them, the stones simply looked mundane. They were just rocks, he thought, not worthy of all this hoopla.

And for half a century people had thought the Stargate was just a stone circle, too.

Now where had that unwelcome thought sprung from?

"What's all the equipment for?" asked Hart, staring at the variety of instruments and computers which were clipped on, taped to, sitting on top of, and, in one instance, jutting out of the stones. "It's just a load of rocks."

"Quiet!" The injunction was hissed with conviction: "They'll hear you and be offended."

O'Neill turned to see an impossibly tall man with impossibly wild white hair bounding towards them across the plastic sheeting. The Geiger counter in Jack's head, sensitive to eccentrics, began to click loudly. The guy was wearing a bow tie, for crying out loud.

"Who will?" asked Daniel.

Well done, Danny. Encourage him.

"The Maidens." The man gestured expansively around the stones. "Or possibly the Men. I haven't managed to ascertain the gender for certain yet."

"So," said Jack slowly, "there are... boy rocks and girl rocks?"

The man tut-tutted disdainfully. "No, not in general. But these stones... they are known locally as the Merry Maidens. Or sometimes as the Dawn's Men. Hence the confusion. However, the latter name is a corruption of the Cornish phrase Dans Maen, meaning, Stone Dancers. So, as maidens may be dancers, but men may not be maidens, I suppose I've answered the question. Professor Irvine Yarrow."

He blinked, smiled, and Jack had the sudden impression that he had known where his ramblings were heading all along. O'Neill took the offered hand, performed yet another round of introductions, then waited while Caliburn went through the same rigmarole. The Major was looking round himself with curiosity and, so far as Jack could tell, a complete lack of understanding. O'Neill watched him closely, suspicions hardening into certainties.

"Perhaps you could begin by outlining the exact nature of your work to date," said Carter.

Go, girl.

Yarrow positively beamed. "Most certainly. I'd be delighted to give you a complete history. It has been- "

"Professor, our American guests have been travelling through the night. I'm sure they would benefit from being shown to their accommodation before we drown them in technical detail."

The individual who had appeared at the Professor's elbow was an edgy, bird-like man whose skinny frame was disguised by a well-cut suit. Far too well cut for his current environment, which was, after all, one layer of plastic away from being a field. O'Neill cast a quick glance down at his shoes and was somehow unsurprised to see that, despite the mud everywhere else, they were black and shiny. It figured. Spooks. He knew the type: nothing stuck to them.

"You're quite right, Mr Pinker. I do apologise, Colonel, Major. We can resume this discussion later."

Jack nodded. That suited him just fine. All he really wanted to do right now was get his people somewhere they could talk in private, before someone came out with something unwise, like-

"Do you really think this could be a Stargate?"

O'Neill winced, shot a look at Daniel which he hoped conveyed extreme displeasure, and was rewarded with the kind of expression children give their parents when they genuinely don't know that forcing buttered toast into the CD player is a bad thing. But when Jack looked away again, he found that Major Caliburn was staring at himself, not Daniel.

Okay. Time to make a strategic withdrawal.

"If it's okay with you, the first thing we'd like to do is take a tour of the site. Make sure it's secure."

"I can assure you it has been made quite secure." Mr Pinker had a voice like cream liqueur: sweet, persuasive and sickly after the first mouthful.

O'Neill smiled at him amiably. "We're here to observe. Well, we'd like to start by observing the perimeter."

"We'll accompany you, Colonel," said Caliburn.

"Not necessary." Something in the Major's expression closed down, and Jack realised regretfully that he'd probably just screwed any chance he had had of hitting it off with the man. But, dammit, he needed some privacy. He turned to go, motioning to the rest of his team to follow. "We'll find our own way."

* * *

"Pinker's a spook and Caliburn doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to be doing here."

They were walking along the edge of the field which adjoined the meadow in which the Maidens stood. The wide white canvas tent which hid the stones from view was just visible on the crest of the gentle hill behind them. From this distance the guide ropes which held it up were invisible, making the marquee look like the flying saucer in an old sci-fi movie. The Day the Earth Stood Still, maybe, thought Jack. Klaatu barada nikto.

In the other direction, the meadow fell away into a steep, grassy gully, along the bottom of which had been erected a flimsy-looking wire fence. The fence was insubstantial, but the signs ranged intermittently along its length were large and clear. He could read them easily from where he stood: ECLIPSE SCIENCE STATION. AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. The soldiers patrolling the perimeter at regular intervals were probably doing a pretty good job of driving the point home to the mass of eclipse-seekers whose tents, caravans and other assorted temporary accommodations packed the side of the hill opposite. If O'Neill had had a pair of binoculars with him, he would even have been able to make out individual jealous expressions. But no one looked as if they were about to head this way, and Jack would have put money on the fence being electric, too.

But Jack had a reason to be glad about the fence. Because of it, he and his three companions were now walking through what was very probably the only sizeable patch of empty countryside within a hundred miles. With no one else within earshot.

"Spook?"

It was Carter who answered Teal'c, but she was looking at O'Neill as she spoke. "He's a British Secret Services operative, Teal'c. Like Maybourne but sneakier."

Now there was a severe attack on character, if Jack had ever heard one. And the description would probably mean more to Teal'c than a half hour lecture on the structure of British Intelligence. Carter didn't have O'Neill's experience in covert ops, but she had spent more than enough time in the Pentagon's somewhat dingy corridors to make up for it. She must have realised the truth about Pinker nearly as quickly as Jack had.

Daniel's expression indicated that Mr Pinker's profession was a genuine revelation to at least one member of the party. "Do you think the Professor knows?"

Jack shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Either he doesn't, and Pinker is running things behind his back, or he does, and he's willingly handed over the reigns of his pet project in return for the funding to green-light it. No, what worries me is that the Major is so obviously in the dark and that Mr Pinker so obviously wants to keep him that way."

"Fine. So we'll tell him."

O'Neill turned around and paced backwards, spreading his arms wide. "Y'see, I'm thinking that that's the point here, Danny."

Daniel looked to Carter for assistance. "Is he making sense?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"It's like this, Daniel." Jack jabbed a finger back in the direction of the UFO-tent-thing: "That's no more a Gate than the washer-dryer in my garage is. We knew that before we got on the plane. More than that, I'll bet Mr Pinker knows that too, even if our over-enthusiastic friend the Professor doesn't yet. The purpose of this little charade is to put one well-informed military unit in close proximity to a similar but less well informed unit, and hope that khaki-coloured bonding takes place and we spill the beans to them about what we really do under Cheyenne Mountain when the folks upstairs at NORAD have gone home for the night. This- " he waved an arm expansively, taking in the tent, the hill, the sky with its imminent eclipse too (hell why not, maybe God was in on it, He'd sounded English in The Ten Commandments): "This is nothing more than an elaborate charade, an exercise in information gathering by the Brits."

Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but Teal'c beat him to it. "I do not understand. Is this nation not an ally?"

"Well... yes," said Carter, uncomfortably.

Jack spread one hand flat and waggled it. "Kinda. At least, we've fought on the same side in the last couple of notable wars. Although if the Spice Girls release any more albums, we may have to take action for the good of civilisation and bomb them into submission."

Teal'c looked puzzled, and Jack found himself regretting that crack: the last thing he needed on top of everything else was to field questions about British girl groups. Come to think of it, he wondered what Teal'c was making of this whole expedition. He nearly hadn't made it this far- the original orders O'Neill had received the previous morning had referred only to himself, Carter and Daniel, and a swift call to the General had confirmed that Command was less than enthusiastic about the idea of allowing the only genuine example of alien life readily available out of the country for any extended period. Jack had other ideas, chief among which was that, however grey or fuzzy the Jaffa's official status was, the one thing he most definitely was not was a prisoner inside Cheyenne Mountain. So, O'Neill had yelled about SG-1 being a four-person unit and generally pitched a hissy fit until he had persuaded Hammond to make use of his long-standing and frequently extremely useful friendship with the current incumbent of the Oval Office. One of these days Jack fully intended to ask him where they knew each other from.

"But the Gate is something special, right?" Daniel spoke quietly; Jack could tell realisation was beginning to dawn. "Finders keepers, and we found it. And other things equal, we'd prefer if no one else even knew about it."

"Something like that."

Carter frowned. "But they do. Even if they don't know details, someone knew enough about the Stargate to request our presence here in the first place. Which begs the further question- why did our government admit the existence of the project by agreeing and sending us?"

Now that was a good question, O'Neill was forced to admit, and not one to which he was currently able to suggest a reasonable-sounding answer.

"I have no idea. But if I'm right, all we have to do is be real careful what we say until eleven minutes past eleven tomorrow morning. When the Prof's experiment fails to ignite, we can all go home."

"What happens at eleven eleven?" asked Daniel.

"What all that equipment back there is set up to record and monitor," said Jack. He raised a hand and pointed up at the sun. The rain which had greeted them as they had landed at RAF Lyneham had dissipated, and it was a fine English summer's afternoon. The sun shone brightly on the fields, brilliant and warm. There was no indication in the heavens of the inevitable approaching conjunction with the moon. But it would happen.

"Totality."

* * *

Sheldrick leaned back in the bright sunshine and wished he'd had the foresight to bring his sunglasses with him from Credenhill. Another couple of days like this and there would be hosepipe bans and the inevitable items on the Nine O'Clock News about reservoirs drying up. It was good to know there were some things in life you could rely on.

"It beats Croatia in December," he said. "And bloody Ulster any time."

"I like Cornwall," agreed Corporal Doyle. "It's peaceful." Which if you didn't know Doyle, ruminated Sheldrick, you would have thought a very strange thing for a professional soldier to say. But that was Doyle.

Sergeant Hart eyed the gentle rolling greenery of the surrounding hills and vales, and screwed up his expression into a mixture of distaste and mistrust. "Not enough buildings," he pronounced. "Not enough roads."

"How old were you before you'd been outside London, Hart?"

"Old enough to know that green is what happens when something's gone off."

"Bloody Southerners."

Hart ripped a handful of damp, mossy grass from the earth and hurled the sod with vengeful enthusiasm. Andy caught it easily- although it half-fell apart as he did so, soil and mud oozing between his fingers- and threw it back. The brown, slimy mass hit Hart square in the chest even as he tried to dodge the impact, and it splattered, leaving a large, dark splotch on the front of his shirt and a mass of tiny flecks on his face and neck. He made desultory attempts to wipe the worst of it off. "Oh, hell. Where am I going to get a clean uniform from?"

Doyle had neatly avoided the fracas by returning his attention to the task at hand. Several large crates had been delivered to the site soon after themselves, and he had started unpacking them. He peered into the first box, frowning at its contents. "I don't think that's going to be a problem." He lifted out a package and threw it to the Sergeant. Even through the reflective plastic wrapping, Andy could read the neat embroidery above the breast pocket: SGT D HART. He nodded appreciatively.

"They thought of everything. For once."

"Yeah," said Doyle, oddly. "Everything." He lifted out more clothes, packs of rations, other mundane field essentials, the paused and hefted an oblong metal case into the sunlight. Resting it on one knee, he flipped open the catches and exhibited the contents to the others.

Sheldrick stared at the disassembled MP-5, and the ammo beside it. "Is that-?"

Doyle nodded. "Live. There're at least another six in here."

Sheldrick looked at the pile of crates in front of them, did the maths. "Bloody hell. They can send us into deepest hostile territory woefully under-equipped, but twenty four hours in Cornwall merits the full monty. Fucking army admin."

Hart was confused. "I don't get it. What could we possibly need all this for? D'you think Cornwall's planning to declare independence or something?"

"God, I hope not," said Andy. "For their sake."

**Five**

"I'm terribly pleased to have the opportunity to talk with you, Dr Jackson. Psycho-sexual Symbolism in Rameside Period Hieroglyphs is a definitive article. I recommend it to all my students."

Oh God. Daniel smiled politely, and tried not to grimace. Why was the psycho-sexual symbolism paper the only one anyone ever remembered? If only it hadn't made quite so much sense when he had written it on a caffeine and junk food high six hours before the submission deadline. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out the smirk on Sam's face.

Yarrow beamed happily at Daniel, oblivious to the trauma he was inducing. He guided them around the patches where grass trampled to mud was leaking through the plastic underfoot as they wove a path between the Maidens. The afternoon sun was warming the canvas over their heads, and the air inside the tent was sultry and still.

"Although it was of course your later work which first sparked my interest in this project."

Daniel looked at him, surprised. "A lot of the later papers weren't, umm, particularly well received by the academic community." Yes, that was one way of putting it. They'd done everything except throw rotten fruit at him when he spoke at conferences.

Yarrow smiled indulgently. "A prophet in his own country, eh, Dr Jackson? Yes, it was your re-translation of the inscriptions at Giza, and the connections drawn to astronomy which intrigued me. I found the notion of the pyramids at Giza being aligned exactly as the stars in Orion's belt absolutely fascinating..."

Daniel found himself nodding enthusiastically. So someone had made it beyond his somewhat unwise foray into ancient Egyptian sexual mores. "There are two other pyramids in the area which fit into the representation of Orion, and another where Sirius should be."

"At the time, I was working on British archaelogy, so Egyptology was merely a pastime. But then I participated in a project at Stonehenge, and I saw..." Yarrow paused, and spread his hands wide for effect: "I was studying a map of the area, and I saw the same pattern, the shape of Orion, being formed in the barrows around the rivers Avon and Kennet. And when one considers that the barrows, when originally constructed, would have been highlighted in gleaming white chalk..."

"...then it's obvious they were built as starmaps," finished Daniel. "And the stone circle at the centre was the observatory."

"Precisely. So we have two sets of ancient peoples on different sides of the world independently developing a fairly sophisticated understanding of astronomy and expressing it in exactly the same way, within a very narrow band of history."

"Except that it wasn't necessarily independent," began Daniel without thinking. "They could have- "

"-Fortuitously arrived at similar conclusions given the same set of external stimuli as Egyptian society," interrupted Sam, and looked pointedly at Daniel.

The Professor, absorbed in his own train of thought, apparently missed the sharpness in her tone. "Well, yes. That was what I concluded initially as well. And then I found something here..." He turned and began to stride away from them, long legs loping easily over the stagnant water pooling in the plastic sheeting underfoot from the previous day's rainfall. Daniel started to follow, and felt Sam's restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Sam..." he began.

"No," she said firmly. "And that's not up for discussion."

He gave her a pained look. "I spent my whole career in academia being laughed at, Sam. And they were wrong and I was right. We know for a fact that there was a Goa'uld presence and Goa'uld technology in ancient Egypt. They could have zipped around the planet in a couple of hours. It's perfectly possible that there is a connection."

"And it's equally possible that it is a coincidence. And even if it isn't, we still say nothing."

At the far side of the ring, Yarrow was kneeling by the one of the larger Maidens, brushing gently at its base with a small cloth. Daniel wondered what kind of reception he got at conferences. "In the last twelve months, I've written twenty papers, not one of which I'm ever going to see in print. I don't even get to talk to anyone outside the SGC... Couldn't I just...?"

"No." Sam hesitated, then continued: "Daniel, I know this isn't easy. But what we do is secret, and that's that."

"Right," said Daniel heavily. "All because we have something they don't."

Yarrow was waving at them to join him. Daniel stalked off across the ring's diameter; after a moment, Carter followed.

"Now this," said Yarrow, kneeling and pointing: "this is quite something. As far as I can tell, it's a unique engraving, although the style and symbolism are more suggestive of Egyptian hieroglyphs than anything of ancient British origin. It's as old as the Stones themselves. Do you recognise it at all, Dr Jackson? "

Daniel stared at the pattern etched into the granite for a long time, unwilling to answer the question with the outright lie it demanded. He didn't merely recognise the carving: the upside down V-shape with the half-circle at its crux was as familiar to him as the letters of his own name.

It was the seventh glyph.

* * *

Rhys doubted that any of the unwashed assorted students, tourists and new age travellers gathered on the neighbouring hills posed a particular security threat-especially with the regulars of the Third pacing the electrified fence around the site's perimeter. Nevertheless he stood the first watch, and told Sheldrick to expect to be woken some time after midnight. Caliburn was not comfortable with the idea of all four members of his patrol being simultaneously unconscious, no matter how safe the territory.

Although with Mr Pinker in the vicinity, he wasn't sure that this particular corner of Cornwall was quite as safe as it should have been.

In Caliburn's experience, situations generally became messier once Intelligence got involved. And in this case, it was clear that Mr Pinker was very involved indeed in whatever the hell was going on out here in the Cornish countryside. Rhys paced along the damp grass, trying to slot the different pieces of the puzzle together in some kind of pattern-revealing order. There was Mr Pinker, with his smooth and empty words. There was the Professor and his experiment. There were the Americans. And finally there was Rhys and his patrol, right slap bang in the middle of things and yet completely ignorant of the true state of affairs, whatever that might be.

No, he couldn't see the pattern.

Rhys was beginning to dislike this assignment intensely.

A noise, a slight clearing of the throat, made him turn sharply. Fifteen years of training kicked in and Rhys brought the gun he was carrying up to the firing position, the bright beam from the torch mounted on its end piercing the darkness. "Friend or foe?" he barked.

The voice which replied from within the piercing white beam was dryly laconic. "American. You make the call." O'Neill waved a hand through the air in front of his face, as if trying to bat the light aside. "And turn that damn thing off. You're blinding me."

Caliburn tipped the rifle up, so that the light, and the barrel, were aimed skywards. "Apologies, Colonel. I thought you'd retired for the evening."

"Yeah, well, it's a clear night, and I wanted to, ahhh..." O'Neill trailed off, sounding, Rhys thought, almost abashed. The Colonel was sitting cross-legged on the grass, something flat and reflective spread out in front of him. Caliburn stepped forward, curious, and saw that he had been consulting a map. A map of the night sky.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"Persean meteors."

Rhys looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Shooting stars. Originating in the constellation of Perseus, hence Persean. Tonight's the shower maximum, and the sky's clear. Look." He pointed upwards, and Rhys tipped his head back in time to see a streak of light flame across the starfield then die away. "Make a wish, Major."

The meteor had vanished, and the sky was still once more, but Rhys found himself continuing to stare up at it, his gaze being absorbed by the infinite vista of lights. "It is quite entrancing, isn't it?"

The Colonel began to fold up his map. "I never used to notice it. Always thought stars were just things that country singers compared their girlfriends' eyes to. But once you start looking you can't stop." He lifted an arm, index finger outstretched. "Lemme show you something. See that? Those six stars right there? That's Ursa Major, Major." He grinned at his own small joke, and Rhys nodded. The ladle-shaped constellation was about the only one he could find and name.

"The Plough. Yes, I see it."

"Okay, those two stars at the far end are Merak and Dubhe. Follow the line that way-" he dragged his finger across the sky: "Then down, that's Virgo. That little red disk in the middle of Virgo, that's Mars."

"Planet of war."

"Kinda appropriate for professional warriors, doncha think?"

Rhys nodded absently. He looked at O'Neill. "So you're the team astronomer, then?"

Unexpectedly, the Colonel laughed. "No more than Daniel is a quarterback." He chuckled again, and collapsed backwards on to the damp meadow-grass, propping himself up on his elbows. "No. I'm no astronomer. Just an interested amateur."

Rhys put his gun to one side, and looked at him in the murk. "Then what are you, Colonel?"

"I'm a grunt, Major. I get paid for going where I'm told and doing what I'm told. Just like you."

As lies went, Rhys had heard more convincing words from his chocolate-mouthed four year old nephew concerning a missing Easter Egg. The summer night air was still, and he realised suddenly that it was too still. He looked up at the silver moon, embedded in the starfield, the night's blank, unseeing eye.

The world was waiting for something.

"I have no problems with doing as I'm told," he said quietly, "but occasionally it's nice to know why."

"Yeah," said the Colonel. "Been there."

"So, what am I doing here?"

O'Neill looked at him. "You're following orders. Just like I am."

Rhys watched as O'Neill folded the starmap and got up. He waited until the American had gone several paces towards the dormitory tents before calling out his name. The other man turned.

"What happens at totality?"

"The moon covers the sun entirely, and the corona is visible around its edges."

Which was a correct answer, reflected Caliburn, but not to the question he had been asking. He pointed at one of the low, grey shapes nestling at the marquee's edge like a duckling at its mother's wing. "Pinker's sleeping in that tent over there."

O'Neill nodded once, and changed direction, taking the long way back behind the Stones, as Rhys had known he would.

So they were not friends, although they had a common foe.

He wondered if that was sufficient.

**Six**

  
_Wednesday August 11_

Jet lag doesn't hit until the second day.

Daniel sat at the folding metal and plastic table, trying to get his brain around the concept of breakfast while his stomach remained obstinately convinced that it was still the middle of the night. It didn't help that British army rations were just as flavourless and unpalatable as anything the US military had inflicted on him in the course of his association with it. At least this experience was alleviated somewhat by a limited selection of fresh fruit and dairy products from several local farms.

"Daniel, Teal'c, look."

Across the table, Sam was nodding at the far side of the temporary enclosure which served as combined mess and meeting hall for the eclectic mixture of people who had converged on the Maidens. Daniel nudged his glasses so that they flopped down from their precarious perch above his fringe and landed on the bridge of his nose. The world snapped into focus.

He twisted his head and scanned the room, trying to locate the source of Carter's obvious amusement. At the next table over, Sheldrick and Hart were having a loud discussion about the relative merits of two soccer teams, neither of which Daniel had heard of, while Doyle pored over a wrinkled copy of the London Times. Daniel guessed it must be the previous day's, unless one of the perks of being in the SAS was having your choice of newspaper delivered to you in the field each morning. As Daniel watched, Major Caliburn looked up and caught his gaze. Daniel looked away, feeling that he had been caught somehow. At the largest table, Yarrow and his gaggle of attendant scientists chatted animatedly in the jargon of technicalities. Mr Pinker ate at a table by himself. And standing at the buffet...

Daniel grinned. Jack was holding a whole grapefruit at arm's length, peering at it through one open eye while moving the apple he was holding in his other hand back and forth. A few more seconds of intense squinting passed until, apparently satisfied, he discarded the grapefruit and crossed to join them, biting into the apple as he walked.

"Good morning, campers, and isn't it a terrific morning?"

Carter smiled slightly, and sipped her coffee. Teal'c raised an eyebrow, and although that was pretty much his ready-response expression in most circumstances, Daniel could have sworn that in this instance there was a lightness in his normally stony features. Daniel tapped the table with his plastic spoon. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that enthusiasm born of intellectual curiosity and the thrill of scientific discovery I hear?"

Jack had demolished the apple in several bites, and was attacking a sealed rations pack with gusto. "Hey, the sun is shining and the sky is clear from horizon to horizon. Which means we're in for a great show. Forget intellectual whatever. Can't a guy get excited over a really impressive show?"

Daniel nodded, and shot a look over the table at Sam, whose smile had spread so wide across her face that she was having trouble with her drink. Time to play his trump card. "Sure. Right. So that wasn't a copy of Sky and Telescope I saw you sneaking off to read last night?"

"I was hiding the latest edition of Penthouse inside it," said O'Neill defensively. Bullseye.

"Sure you were," agreed Daniel. Across the table, Sam's shoulders were shaking, and if Teal'c's eyebrow rose any further, it would be in serious danger of detaching itself from his face.

Suddenly Carter became serious again. "Daniel, have you told the Colonel what Yarrow showed us?"

O'Neill looked at them. "What?"

The experience of the previous afternoon leapt to the forefront of Daniel's mind, ratcheting his good humour down a couple of notches. "The seventh glyph. The symbol for Earth. It's engraved on one of the Stones."

Jack continued munching. "So?"

"So," said Daniel, "a little weird, don't you think? Given that this is Cornwall and not Egypt."

"Danny, Ra's autobiography could be engraved on these stones and it wouldn't make a whole heap of difference. So the Goa'uld did a little exploring while they were here. Big deal."

Outside the sun shone. But not for much longer.

* * *

"And the official fashion accessory of the day is..." O'Neill produced four sets of tinted goggles from behind his back with a flourish: "...aluminized mylar glasses. Put 'em on now, take 'em off when it's over. And remember- scorched retinas are for life, not just for eclipses."

Daniel made a face at the excruciating pun as he pulled the bulky goggles over his regular glasses and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the newly-tinted world.

In the midst of the scientific activity which had consumed the hours since breakfast, the two military contingents had been more or less forgotten, with the exception of Carter, who had spent most of the morning deep in conversation with two long-haired techno-geeks, over a particular piece of arcane machinery which was refusing to play ball with the rest of the set-up. Several lengthy bouts of coffee-fuelled reprogramming seemed however to have done the trick, and the Captain was currently strapping on her goggles while her two newest fans watched from behind the machinery with expressions which were somewhat goggle-eyed also.

When it had become obvious that the British weather was going to abandon the habits of millennia and behave itself for once, a small team had been dispatched to remove the marquee's low canvas roof, and the Maidens were now once more bathed in bright sunshine. Only the fabric walls of the tent remained in place, affording some measure of privacy from the legions of eclipse watchers crowded on to the nearby hills.

"So when does it start?" asked Daniel.

A shadow passed across the circle of stones. O'Neill looked at his watch: 9.57. "It just did," he said. "First contact."

High in the eastern sky, the sun suddenly took on a lopsided aspect, as the moon began to eat into its photosphere. A tiny black bite appeared at its circumference, rapidly enlarging and gobbling up the surface of fire. Very quickly, the sky began to darken noticeably; overhead, a flock of starlings swirled once around the circle in evident confusion before alighting on the branches of the trees nearby and attempting to roost.

Yarrow's team must have been made up of veterans with a multitude of similar experiences behind them, because they seemed to have no difficulty ignoring the celestial ballet taking place overhead in order to attend to their various tasks. The military representatives, on the other hand, were probably all going to need neck braces by lunchtime.

"Wow," commented Daniel. "It's weird enough when you know exactly what it is and why it's happening. No wonder ancient civilisations attached so much significance to eclipses."

"Look at the ground."

He looked, and saw through a gap in the canvas wall a thousand miniature images of the crescent sun jump and flicker over the grassy earth beneath the nearby trees. "Magic," whispered Daniel, and he had never used the word with such a certainty of its meaning before.

Sam shook her head. "Physics. The tiny gaps between the leaves must be acting as pinhole cameras, focusing the light on to the ground and-"

But Daniel was not paying attention. Physics was as arcane and mysterious a discipline to him as archaeology was to her. In that respect, he supposed he was not so distant from the ancients who had sat here, when the Stones were raw and freshly hewn, watching the last perfect conjunction of day and night passing overhead with the same feelings of awe and wonder now filling him.

He shivered. The temperature was dropping quickly, and the air was still. Shadows sharpened and the countryside around appeared washed in a metallic grey hue. Parallel lines of light and dark skimmed the still grass in the meadow below the Maidens. "What is that?"

"Shadow bands," said O'Neill. "Caused by irregular atmospheric diffraction of the sun's rays."

Daniel looked at him. "Who are you and what have you done with Jack?"

"Oh for crying..." O'Neill rolled his eyes. "You're not the only person who can read books, y'know."

Daniel smiled. Around them, the world was preternaturally silent, waiting.

"Eleven o'clock," came Yarrow's voice, a soft call across the circle. "Totality in ten minutes."

Daniel started, and peered at his own watch in the gloom. Where had the last hour gone? Overhead, he could see the Moon's shadow approaching from the western horizon, the harbinger of night. The sun was the merest sliver of its former fullness, and even that was diminishing rapidly as the dark disk of its silver sister slipped in front of its face.

"Second contact," said O'Neill. "We'll see Bailey's Beads in a second."

"What's- ? Oh..." In the seconds before the moon covered the sun's face entirely, the rim of light at the sun's exposed edge broke up into a chain of discrete blobs of light which shone along the arc, diamonds scattered by God's hand. The sight, in its full breathtaking near-perfection, lasted only for a moment, before the beads began to wink out, one by one. The final bead burnt brightest and longest, creating a diamond ring in the sky, a token exchanged between sun and moon, between heaven and earth.

With a conscious effort, Daniel released the breath he had not realised he was holding. He made himself take slow, deep breaths of the chilly air, and looked down momentarily. And saw...

"Jack."

O'Neill grunted in acknowledgement, his attention focused on the spectacle above.

"Jack, the Stones are glowing."

"It's another optical effect."

Now Carter and Teal'c were looking at their ground-level surroundings again. "No, sir, Daniel's right," said Sam. "It almost looks as if..." she broke off. O'Neill twisted around to look at them wearing an expression which clearly heralded a firm intention to tell them both to shut up and watch the eclipse, and stopped.

The Maidens were glowing, not with a silvery reflected light but with something altogether different. A blue-tinged lambency ignited their granite surfaces in cold fire, flowing in shimmering waves over the Stones like water. Like water. And where had Daniel seen that particular effect before?

Carter beat him to it. "My God. It is a Gate."

"But that's- that's not possible," stuttered Daniel.

"I know it's not a Gate. You know it's not a Gate," said Jack. "Anybody want to tell the rocks?"

There was no doubt about it now. The Stones were coming to life around them, drawing the attention of the grouped watchers increasingly from the sky above. Caliburn and his men looked around themselves in increasing confusion. As Daniel watched, the Major took a step forward into the ring, some instinct drawing him closer to his men in the face of the unknown.

It was completely the wrong thing to do.

"Get out of the circle!" yelled Daniel. A fraction of a second later he registered that Jack was shouting as well, having come to the same conclusion as himself. "Step back out of the ring!"

Caliburn stared at them in bemusement and took a tentative step backwards, as the Stones crackled with energy and the air between them began to hum. Sheldrick followed him, then Doyle. Hart stayed where he was.

Above them, the diamond dissolved into blackness as the last of the photosphere disappeared behind the moon's dark void. The brightest stars came out in the clear sky, and the corona, wispy and wraith-like, appeared around the obsidian circle where the sun had been.

Sheldrick crossed the threshold of the circle; Doyle was a few steps behind him. Caliburn looked up at the sky. O'Neill yelled at Hart, but the Sergeant stood still, like a shadowy replica of one of the Stones which encircled them.

Then the ground dissolved, and the Gate opened at their feet.

* * *

The earth liquefied and shifted as the seventy seven feet wide circle of mud and grass and plastic sheeting melted and distorted into a gateway whose perimeter was marked by nineteen pillars of blue fire.

O'Neill watched in horror as Caliburn fell like a brick through wet tissue paper. Someone on the far side of the circle gave a high pitched scream, and he figured that whatever Yarrow and his team had been expecting to happen, it hadn't been this.

Sheldrick was placing his right foot on the solid ground outside the circle when the earth behind him melted to glimmering insubstantiality. He lurched awkwardly, throwing his weight forward as he attempted to keep his balance. He had been lucky; Jack could tell even as he raced around the perimeter towards the Lieutenant that he was just far enough across the boundary to make it on to terra firma. Doyle and Hart had not been so fortunate, and as Sheldrick collapsed and twisted his head and shoulders to look behind him, they began to flounder and sink at the edge of the shimmering sea of blue light. Like men drowning in the shallows, they began to sink.

Sheldrick reached out and grabbed Hart by the arm. Jack skidded down on to his knees at the soldier's side in time to take a firm grip of Doyle's shirt. He grunted with the sudden exertion of bearing the other man's full weight. The Sergeant and the Corporal were being drawn into the vortex as surely as if it were deepest quicksand. Jack felt himself beginning to slide forward on the slippery plastic, and looked around frantically for something with which he could anchor himself. There was nothing.

Teal'c arrived and locked his grip around on Doyle's other arm, relieving part of the burden on Jack. A few feet away, Daniel and Carter were helping Sheldrick as best they could, but Hart was still slipping away from them, the expression on his face one of near-terror. With a sudden cold feeling in his stomach, Jack realised that they were not fighting gravity alone. Whatever force acted on matter entering the wormhole had claimed Hart for its own and would not let him go.

"Rope," he gasped to Carter: "Get rope."

She nodded, understanding, and disappeared, leaving Sheldrick and Daniel participating in a losing tug-of-war over Hart.

Jack and Teal'c were fairing better with Doyle: whatever tides and eddies swirled in the forces under the Gate's surface seemed to have momentarily cancelled each other out, and the pulling force they were exerting on him was succeeding in raising him up out of the whirlpool. "Teal'c-" Jack readied himself: "On three. One. Two- pull!"

They pulled, and Doyle yelled in surprise and pain as his shoulder was wrenched upwards. But they had won, and together they hauled him on to the grass and rolled him away from the lip of the pool.

Jack indicated Hart, and nodded to Teal'c. "Him next. We can..."

But it was too late. He turned in time to see Hart's terrified face slip underneath the dancing false waters.

"Shit," said Sheldrick. "Shit, shit, shit..."

"I found rope," reported Carter, returning with a thick coil slung over her shoulder.

"Too late," said Daniel, shaking his head.

"We could pull them back up."

"The Gates work only in one direction."

"But this isn't a Gate, and we just pulled a man who was half way through it out again."

"If we threw down a rope..."

"There isn't enough time," interrupted O'Neill. Around him, Carter, Daniel and Teal'c fell silent. He pointed at the sky above them, where the corona around the inky blackness of totality was fading. In seconds, the diamond ring would reappear on the far side of the disk, and the eclipse would be over. "Totality lasts just over two minutes. Who wants to bet that in thirty seconds this Gate- or whatever the hell it is- shuts down until the next total eclipse passes this way sometime in the next century? We don't have time to get those men back up here." He stopped. "We do have time to join them."

Daniel stared at him, horrified. "Join them?"

Jack nodded. "They don't know what's happened to them. They don't know where they are. Even if they landed a hundred yards from a real Stargate, they wouldn't know how to use it to get home. We're their best chance of getting back."

"But this isn't a Stargate." Carter spoke quickly, rushing the words as the seconds ticked by. "There's no guarantee that they've gone somewhere on the Gate network. And if they haven't, we'd only be stranding ourselves as well."

Jack looked at her. "Which is why you're not coming, Captain. If we can't get back here from there, you'll have to figure out a way of getting to us."

"Sir, that might not be possible- "

"You'll think of something, Captain," Jack told her with a confidence which he hoped sounded more convincing in her ears than his own. He faced Daniel and Teal'c. "I won't leave those men stranded for the rest of their lives without ever knowing why. We can get them home. We can get us home." He grinned, and heard the manic edge in his voice. "Volunteers?"

Teal'c nodded.

"Daniel, I'll need you to work out how to dial us home when we find a Gate."

"If we find a Gate."

"This is why the Air Force pays your life insurance premiums."

"You know, your good ideas are okay, but your bad ideas really stink." Daniel lifted his hands to his head and pushed them back through his hair.

"Fifteen seconds," said Jack. "No pressure or anything."

Daniel shut his eyes, opened them again. "Next time I ask for an extra twelve hours somewhere to study something in more detail..."

"Twenty four," said Jack, "Scout's honour. And I won't even complain about being bored." Then he stepped over the edge of the circle. He had vanished before the last syllable of geronimo had made it past his lips.

Teal'c turned to Carter. "We will return," he said. Then he too disappeared.

Daniel hesitated by the maelstrom's edge. "If there's no Gate there, it's up to you."

Sam nodded. "I'll think of something."

Daniel shut his eyes, and jumped.

The Gate closed.

The first shafts of post-eclipse light hit the hills, scattering shadows and flooding the indigo sky with the red-orange light of a false dawn. On the opposite side of the circle of stones, a technician was having hysterics. Yarrow was standing staring at the ground inside the circle, as silent and immobile as one of the granite pillars which flanked him. And Mr Pinker watched everything, with an alert and all-embracing gaze.

Sam knelt beside Doyle, and began automatically to administer first aid to his shoulder. Beside him, Sheldrick was staring at the dewy meadow grass which grew in the space where a moment before there had been a swirling blue nothing, swearing continuously under his breath.

"Sure," she repeated to herself, "I'll think of something."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

  


**The Keltoi**

**One**

For some reason, Wizard of Oz references formed the basis of the most popular running jokes around the SGC. Sinking feet first through the darkness- well, it felt feet-first, although Sam would have argued that gravity had no more influence during transference than it did outside the Earth's atmosphere- Daniel was inclined to think that in this instance Alice in Wonderland would have been more appropriate.

He was falling slowly, so slowly that the experience had more in common with a gentle parachute drop to earth than the heady, plummeting thrill of being sucked through the Gate that he had come to expect. He also had the sensation of being in an enclosed space or tunnel, and he briefly entertained the possibility that what they had stumbled across was not a Gate but simply a very, very deep hole, and any minute now he would pop out somewhere in the Australian outback. It would be no stranger than a lot of the things that had happened to him in the past couple of years.

There was a light somewhere below him. He hoped kangaroos were friendly.

With a sound which was almost a pop a green grassy mat too lush and verdant to be Antipodal appeared underneath him. Just in time, he recalled one class from the endless round of training courses the Air Force had made him take, and tucked his legs up to his chest, and prepared to roll with the impact.

Whumph.

Daniel hit the ground with something which was less of a controlled rolling motion and more of an arms-flailing, legs-kicking tumble; but it achieved its purpose, and when he came to an eventual halt, flat out on his back and staring at the rippling blue expanse above him, he was bruised and winded but nothing worse.

Overhead, the shimmering gateway broke apart and dissipated, leaving him with a clear view of the sky, whose flat blue expanse was punctuated by a flotilla of white, nebulous clouds.

"Daniel? You okay?"

He opened his mouth to respond to O'Neill's urgent inquiry, but nothing more than a thin wheeze emerged. The fall had knocked off the mylar goggles, but had protected his glasses for long enough that they had not parted company from his face until he had slowed down considerably. A brief search in the grass around nearby located them and a quick inspection revealed that the lenses were undamaged. With a sigh of relief, Daniel replaced them and blinked in the bright sunshine, and attempted to sit up. He allowed O'Neill to help him.

"Danny, are you injured?"

"No..." he wheezed, and managed a weak grin: "Although after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling downstairs."

Apparently O'Neill hadn't read Alice in Wonderland recently. His expression creased with deepening concern. "Hell, you're concussed. Okay, sit there and I'll..."

"It's all right. I'm okay. Just a little bruised." Daniel looked up and down the grassy bank which had taken the brunt of the impact. Caliburn was standing up, a hand to his head, which he was shaking slowly as if the world around them was an optical illusion which could be cleared if he blinked rapidly enough. Teal'c was attending to Sergeant Hart, who had been less fortunate than Daniel in the angle at which he hit the ground. "Where are we?"

Jack pulled Daniel to his feet.

"God knows. But I don't think we're in Kansas any more."

* * *

Carter spent most of Wednesday afternoon yelling.

As the stars disappeared and the sky flooded with the golden translucent rays of the re-emerging sun, she yelled at the stunned scientists and archaeologists on Yarrow's team until one of the long-haired technicians stumbled into life to help her administer first aid to Sheldrick and Doyle. Neither of the soldiers was badly injured, but both were exhibiting symptoms of shock, which was hardly surprising. They had, after all, just watched two of their comrades being literally swallowed up by the ground, and had narrowly escaped the same fate themselves.

Next, she shouted for an air ambulance to take the SAS men to the nearest military hospital, then for a helicopter to take herself and Yarrow after them. She raised her voice with the terrified Lance Corporal who was sent to placate her, with the result that she was reassured that a secure communications channel with the MOD in London would be waiting for her on arrival at the closest RAF base. Then she shouted for coffee. The tactic seemed to have worked so far, and it seemed a pity to stop while she was ahead.

Her father would have called it an SLT. Strategic Loss of Temper. Not to be indulged in on a regular basis, but damned effective in the right circumstances.

She was finishing the last dregs of the coffee as the late afternoon sun dipped behind the distant low hills. The campers, distant dots of day-glow orange and yellow, were dismantling their tents, packing up their caravans. She was glad her route out of Cornwall would be air-borne: the roads leading east would be as impassable for the next twenty four hours as the roads west had been during the previous twenty four. She looked behind her at the quiet, sleeping Stones. Show's over folks. Move along. Nothing to see here now.

A sudden angry impulse made her crush the empty polystyrene cup in her fist. In front of her, a sycamore seed twirled through the still air towards the ground, its twin green blades designed by nature's symmetry to carry it as far from its parent tree as possible. Sam watched it distractedly, absorbed by other thoughts, until a sudden gust of wind knocked the seed beyond her sight. She looked up, and saw the Chinook which had been summoned for them descending rapidly. The helicopter was a kind of mechanical sycamore seed made by human hands.

She frowned, and looked back at the Stones again. Sycamore seeds and helicopters. Why did that thought bother her?

The roar of the settling Chinook was loud in her ears now, disrupting her concentration. Yarrow hurried towards her, down the rough muddy path which led away from the Maidens. "Where's Pinker?" called Sam, vocal chords fighting the tide of noise from behind her.

Yarrow looked about himself. "I don't know. I haven't seen him. You don't suppose he...?"

Sam shook her head. Whatever else had happened to Pinker, she was certain he had not fallen through the open wormhole. She guessed the little spook had far too well-developed a sense of self-preservation for that. She replayed the events of the morning in her head, and realised that the last time she had seen him had been in the confusion just after totality. Amidst the general air of hysteria, Pinker had been calmly standing by himself, making a series of low-voiced, urgent-toned calls into his cellphone.

So much for the Colonel's injunction to say nothing. They must have provided the spook with enough material to fill a dozen highly confidential reports. But if he had scurried off to brief his superiors, at least Sam would not have to deal with him again. That seemed to be the only good point to have arisen from the eclipse debacle.

The Chinook's blades slowed and stilled. "C'mon," she said to Yarrow: "Let's go."

She paused before climbing into the aircraft's belly, somehow compelled to look back at the Stones once more before departing. The circle of Maidens in the open field mocked her; sleeping now, they clutched their secrets close to their still, stone hearts.

It had taken years to unlock the Stargate's mysteries. She doubted the Colonel could be so patient.

* * *

 

"Where the bloody hell did everybody go?"

"They didn't go anywhere," said O'Neill. "We're the ones who've moved."

Hart, who had posed the question, stared at O'Neill in consternation, then turned to Caliburn, as if making an appeal to a higher, more rational power.

Rhys rubbed at his temple; he had sustained a painful blow to his neck and shoulder when he had- landed? Yes, that felt like the right word, he had certainly fallen some distance- when he had landed, and the pain was unfurling into hot, elongated tendrils inside the muscles behind his ears. He wouldn't be able to turn his head easily tomorrow.

In the meantime, he didn't understand what the American colonel was talking about. Rhys was sitting, with the four other men, in the centre of the nineteen granite Stones. The apparatus and other scientific paraphernalia which had disturbed the ancient dignity of the site had been removed, along with all evidence of the large team of people who had been there not ten minutes earlier.

That didn't make sense. Perhaps he had lost consciousness; that would account for the site being cleared so completely without his knowledge. But in that case, why had they been left behind?

"Look at this place," O'Neill said. "Does that look like Merrie Olde Englande to you?"

Rhys had to admit that he had a point. The ground inside the circle was dusty and dry, but beyond the circumference which the stones defined, the dense vegetation of what seemed to be a tropical forest pushed in from all around. Large-leafed plants swayed and dipped in the warm, moist breeze and somewhere high in the tree canopy a bird jabbered and called with a high-pitched squawk which was unlike anything Rhys had ever heard in the Home Counties. He half expected David Attenborough to appear through the foliage at any second.

He looked at O'Neill who, apparently satisfied that he had got his attention, continued: "Okay. This is going to sound a little kooky, but bear with me. We fell through a wormhole, a kind of a rip-"

"Or aperture-"

"Not helpful, Danny."

"Sorry."

"-a kind of a rip in space. It's like, ahh, a worm burrowing through an apple. Hence the term wormhole. Leastways, that's how it was explained to me." He paused. "Look, we're on another planet. Deal with it."

Rhys stared at them: the Colonel, the anxious-looking archaeologist, and the silent black man. Lunatics, he thought. We've been kidnapped by lunatics.

 

O'Neill turned to Jackson. "How was that?"

"Honest opinion? You were doing well up to the last part. Then I felt you lost the tone a little."

"Carter's better at this kind of thing," admitted O'Neill.

"Captain Carter is still on Earth."

"Yes, Teal'c, I know she's still-"

Caliburn was still processing the previous sentence. One part of it stuck out in his mind. "...on Earth?" he echoed.

O'Neill nodded, as to a slow and somewhat backward child. "We left her in Cornwall."

"This is Cornwall," protested Hart.

"Am I going to have to do my B-movie mad scientist explanation again? We are not in Cornwall-"

"Excuse me," interrupted Daniel.

"We are not in England-"

"Umm, perhaps if we all looked at the sky-"

"We're not even in Europe-"

"Everyone look up!" commanded Daniel.

Rhys looked up. The sun was low in the sky, and rising from the opposite horizon was a full, blue-tinged moon.

He stared. Make that moons.

The second satellite was a smaller version of its dominant companion, but the shadowy pock marks of the craters which marred its surface could just be seen with the naked eye, and there was no doubt about what it was.

Rhys shut his eyes against the sight, and breathed deeply. The thick, damp air which filled his nostrils bore the scent of exposed earth, the fragrances of flowering plants, and something else. The air was infused with something indefinably different, and it told Caliburn that he did not belong here.

This was not home. Not anything like it.

"Oh fuck," said Hart. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck..."

He was staring into space, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. Rhys could empathise with the reaction- he was sorely tempted to join in- but he could not allow it. "Knock it off, Sergeant," he said sharply, trying to project an assurance and authority he did not feel.

"But we're... it's... this isn't..." Hart looked at him, his pleading red-rimmed eyes glistening in the half-light.

Rhys placed a hand on his shoulder and said, more gently, "Derek. Del. We're here. We're not injured. We're not in immediate danger." He looked up at O'Neill. "And we're about to get a full explanation for exactly what the hell just happened. Right, Colonel?"

O'Neill sat back, and nodded. "Right."

* * *

Carter waited until the helicopter was under way before tackling Yarrow.

"So what were you expecting to happen this morning, Professor?"

He looked at her, eyes almost as wild and floating as his shock of white hair. Sheldrick and Doyle weren't the only ones whose stress-bearing mechanisms had been tried by the day's events. Ordinarily, Sam would have had more sympathy towards the man, but she needed answers and was feeling more than a little strung out herself. Yarrow wasn't the one who had had to stand by and watch his closest friends vanish to a place from which it was not altogether certain that return was possible.

Dammit, she wouldn't allow herself to think like that.

Yarrow's hands twisted together in front of his chest. "I didn't... we weren't..."

"Professor," she insisted.

He took a deep breath. "Electromagnetic fields."

"What about them?"

"They are particularly strong in the area around Falmouth. I had a survey performed and found..." He unlaced his fingers and made a circular motion with one hand, before tapping the centre of the imaginary ring with the other: "...that the fields are focused around the Maidens. Since the fields fluctuate with the effects of gravity, the phases of the moon and so on, and since Dr Jackson's theories had made me wonder if the circle had been constructed as part of a star map, I speculated that there might be some measurable effect on the fields during an event of such astronomical significance as a total eclipse." He gave a hollow laugh: "There was."

Carter stared at him. "You weren't expecting that to happen? You don't know what it was?"

Yarrow looked up, startled. "My word, who could have anticipated... Of course not." His eyes narrowed. "Did you?"

"No," said Carter.

The Professor gazed at her in confusion. "Then why did you come?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I was told that you- I mean, the American military- wanted to be present at the tests."

"Who told you that?"

"The gentleman from the Ministry. Mr Pinker."

Sam thought about that. "The symbol you found engraved on the Stones. Do you know what it is?"

"Well, no," he said, puzzled. "That's what I was hoping you could tell me. Mr Pinker said it was your area of expertise."

"Mr Pinker told you a lot of things, didn't he?"

The Professor frowned. "No," he said shortly. "Not really."

That figured. Carter would have pressed for more information, but any further conversation was made impossible by the increasing roar of the Chinook's engine as it climbed into the air and bore them east, over the idyllic, crowded fields.

**Two**

"So, you do this kind of thing on a regular basis?"

"Pretty much every week."

Caliburn nodded, taking this in, and gazed into the flames of the campfire they had built. Mr Teal'c, it seemed, was a man of few words but many talents. When the night had begun to draw in, it had not taken him long to find and use a small fragment of flint to kindle a fire from the dry wood the others had found around the circle. The jungle's muggy heat had prompted everyone to shed a layer of clothing, and Teal'c had abandoned his hat, revealing a prominent gold tattoo in the middle of his forehead. It was almost a brand on his dark skin, and Caliburn added one more item to the day's excessively long list of peculiarities.

The fire crackled. He traced the paths of individual sparks in the rising plume upwards in the smoke until they died away somewhere among the unfamiliar patterns of the stars overhead.

The glance upwards was unwise. It prompted another stab of longing for home which he fought to repress. He dug his fingers into the dry soil so hard that he could feel sharp fragments of rock gouging his skin. "If you knew this was going to happen you might have said something about it."

"We didn't know," said Jackson. Of the three Americans, he seemed most eager to answer Rhys' questions. "We didn't think it was possible. There's a whole host of factors Stargates have that the Maidens don't. They're made of a mineral not found on earth, they have control devices nearby, they..."

"What Daniel is saying, albeit somewhat long-windedly," broke in O'Neill, "is that as far as we knew, you can't make a Stargate by throwing a few rocks together."

Rhys raised an eyebrow. "Apparently one can."

"You don't say," returned O'Neill drily.

"So how do we get back?" asked Hart. His nervousness had not abated, which disturbed Caliburn. He had never seen the Sergeant so seriously rattled by anything. But he was at least managing to sound calm.

"Two possibilities," said the Colonel: "Option one: Carter works out how the Stones in Cornwall operate, in which case all we have to do is stay put until she does."

"And failing that?"

"Option two: we go looking for a real Stargate, so Daniel can dial us home."

Rhys looked at the archaeologist. "You can do that?"

Jackson dug in a pocket and produced a dog-eared ring-bound pad. "I brought my notebook."

"I'm glad someone brought something," said Rhys, "since we don't have food, water or appropriate equipment."

"Carter's good," said O'Neill. "We won't be here long enough to need them."

Oh wonderful, thought Caliburn as he lay back on the cold, hard earth- no, make that ground. An optimist. That was all he needed.

Above him, the two moons hung in the night sky, one large and one small, a knowing wink from a universe better informed than himself.

Rhys shut his eyes and, in spite of the jungle heat, shivered.

* * *

The flight to London took less than three hours, which Sam considered little more than a short hop. The staff at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall did not appear to share her opinion, and she quickly lost count of the number of kind enquiries as to how well she had survived the rigors of her lengthy journey. It was an odd country, she thought, which was so small and thought itself so large.

While Yarrow was taken away, presumably to make account to his superiors, a matronly woman named Joan showed Sam to a tiny, bare office. There, what Joan assured her was the secure communications link Carter had requested was installed. Joan smiled a smile which might have been maternal concern or might have been a Cheshire Cat grin. Sam couldn't tell, and so had no option but to take her words at face value.

Politely, Carter refused the cup of tea which Joan offered before leaving her alone. When the woman had gone, she stared at the PC and the telephone sitting beside it on the desk with suspicion for several minutes. But she knew she would have to talk to SGC at some point, and it was either this or a telephone booth in the street. Cellphones were not standard issue equipment for SG teams. She would have to see what she could do about that when she got back.

She resigned herself to the possibility that the conversation she was about to have might not be as private as she would have liked and lifted the receiver, wishing that O'Neill could be here. His experience in covert ops and the lies governments tell each other was exactly what she needed right now. She entered the direct line number and felt another quick stab of anger at having been ordered to stay behind. She was a scientist and a military officer; she lacked the experience in half-truths and deal-making that this situation would soon demand.

The phone rang twice before it was answered. The voice on the other end was tinny and echoed slightly in her ear, but she was glad to hear the General's calm, measured tones. She briefed him quickly, answered his questions as they arose.

"Where are you now, Captain?" he asked finally.

"London, sir. At the MOD. They're finding me a hotel for tonight."

"And there's been no further activity at the Stones in Cornwall?"

"No, sir. Professor Yarrow left a small section of his team there to monitor them, and I've left instructions to let me know if there's any activity, but my instincts say it's unlikely. The eclipse has come and gone."

"Do you think you can recreate the wormhole at the Stones without an eclipse?"

Sam pushed her hair back off her face and gazed at her reflection in the dark surface of the office's single tiny window. Then she refocused on the lights beyond the glass, the myriad chains of golden streetlamps which stretched along Victoria Embankment, lining the wide dark waters of the Thames. "I won't know until I sit down and go through Yarrow's results, try to figure out exactly how the eclipse made the wormhole open in the first place. But even then..." she trailed off, her mind tracking down several possible avenues of investigation, already anticipating the dead ends just out of sight: "...They're just rocks in a field, sir. We can't recreate a total eclipse, and right now I can't see what other factors might have been in play."

"Then perhaps you'd better return to the SGC and work on the problem from here."

Sam shut her eyes. God, that was tempting. The familiar environment of the SGC, her own equipment, her own team of scientists... She opened her eyes, made herself look at the lights of the London skyline. "Our Gate only connects with other Gates. Since the Colonel and the others left here through something which is not a Stargate, there is a strong possibility that wherever they've gone doesn't have one either. I've got to satisfy myself that I've exhausted all the possibilities here before I leave, sir."

"Very well. I've put TSS on full alert. If you need to teleconference with anybody here at any time, it'll happen."

Sam nodded. The SGC's Technical and Scientific Support team comprised some of the best people she had ever worked with, across a dozen fields. Knowing she had that resource to call upon made her feel slightly more confident. But only slightly.

Five men had disappeared into a hole in the ground during an eclipse, and she had to find out why, and then make it happen again.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I'll be in touch."

"I know it's late where you are, Captain. Go and get some rest. In the morning, you'll think of a way to bring them home."

Despite herself, Sam smiled, hearing the undercurrent of paternal concern in the distant voice. At least she knew that was genuine. "Yes sir. I'll do that," she said, and cut the connection.

But the answer was a lie, of sorts. Rest and bring them home. She wouldn't do one until she had achieved the other.

* * *

The ground was hard, cold and uncomfortable. Jack grunted, and turned over on to his other side; this made his sleeping position no more tolerable, and only served to allow the brilliant dawn rays of this alien world's sun to shine straight into his face. Even with his eyes closed, it was too bright. He gave up on sleep and sat up, stretching sore, stiff muscles.

Not far off, Daniel was curled into a foetal ball, arms wrapped around himself, legs drawn up to his chest. Jack gave him a firm shake. "Rise and shine, Danny-boy."

Daniel started, and opened his eyes, squinting in the harsh morning sun. "What time is it?"

"It's dawn here, two a.m. in Cornwall, and about eight in the evening at home. Take your pick."

Daniel moaned. "This isn't jet lag, it's terminal temporal confusion." He rolled over and sat up. The circle of stones was as empty and dormant as it had been when they had made camp the previous evening. "How much longer are we going to wait here?"

"Just the question I was about to ask."

Jack looked up in time to see Caliburn cross the circle and join them. A tuft of hair was sticking out at right angles to his head just above one ear, and stubble was darkening the skin on his jaw and throat. O'Neill looked down at his own clothes- and dammit, he was wearing dress uniform, not even practical combats and boots- and decided that they must all look something less than parade perfect this morning.

"Colonel, no one is injured. We can all walk. And we need to find fresh water, if nothing else."

"Agreed," Jack conceded. He looked beyond the boundaries of the circle. Dense undergrowth began only a few feet outside the perimeter, and it was impossible to see further than several yards in any direction. "Anyone want to make the call?"

Caliburn indicated the rising sun. "East is as good as anything."

"Ummm," said Daniel.

The Major looked at him. "Problem, Dr Jackson?"

"Not with the direction. It's just that, uh, where the sun rises isn't necessarily east here."

Caliburn looked for a moment as if he might say something. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away to wake Hart.

"Way to go, Danny," muttered Jack. "Make it harder for the guy than it already is."

Daniel frowned. "I thought he seemed to be coping pretty well."

"Seemed being the operative word. This is SOP for us, or very nearly. Caliburn over there is in major weird-out territory, if you'll pardon the pun. We're lucky Hart's here, and not taking it so well. Caliburn's keeping it together for the sake of his command."

"You think?"

"I know." Jack straightened up. "C'mon. Time to head east, or whatever the hell direction it is."

* * *

Carter's luggage, such as it was, had been left in the centre of her hotel room, waiting for her arrival. The suite which had been found for her in the Mayfair hostelry easily ranked as the most opulent accommodations she had been billeted to during her career, although she suspected this was more a result of the last minute nature of the arrangement rather than the British MOD's intrinsic spirit of generosity towards visiting Americans. Under other circumstances, she would have devoted a considerable length of time to enjoying the plush surroundings; tonight, she was too preoccupied to do much more than cast a quick glance around her as she unpacked.

The task completed, she kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, massaging her cramped and aching toes. She hadn't worn heels for such an extended period of time in months, and her feet were letting her know it. Come to think of it, the rest of her body wasn't overly happy at having been zipped and buttoned into the chafing confines of skirt and jacket when it had become accustomed to more comfortable, practical clothes. She acceded to its demands and stripped, dumping her uniform on the luggage rack and shrugging on the towelling robe she found hanging behind the door in the bathroom. Then she sat up against the bed's headboard with a pad of hotel writing paper balanced against her knees, sucking on the end of a hotel pen, and thought about wormholes.

Thinking about wormholes. It seemed to Sam sometimes that she had spent most of the past four years doing little else. She knew she had a first class mind- that wasn't vanity, it was an honest appraisal of one of her greatest assets- but she also knew that she had become part of the Stargate project through a mixture of hard work and simple good fortune. Hard work had led her through the long, difficult path of degree after degree, and then, just when she had the beginnings of a career in academia, it had taken her through the entirely new challenges the military had presented. Good fortune had ensured that one whimsical, extreme paper she had written- Traversible Wormholes: Theory and Implications- had landed on the desk of someone with the power to make things happen.

There were more brilliant physicists, but Sam Carter knew for certain that tonight there was no one else on the planet who possessed her combination of theoretical knowledge and practical experience of wormholes.

She could make it count. She had to.

* * *

Within a few yards of the Maidens' alien sisters, the vegetation thickened into a mass of green foliage which was impossible to pass through except in single file, and only then with tedious slowness. Rhys pushed his way through the soggy green mesh of creepers and low branches which blocked the way ahead, wishing for the thousandth time that he had a machete. Better still, a flamethrower. Yes, it was an impractical fantasy, but as everything that had happened to him since the previous day had been firmly in the realms of the fantastical, he didn't see why he shouldn't indulge himself for a while.

Rhys cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Hart was still following, ignoring the pain the movement generated. He was glad to see the younger man was making a good pace, and was concentrating on where he placed his feet with each step. The undercurrent of vague terror had never left his face, but at least a collapse into hysterics or shock had been forestalled.

Satisfied, Caliburn twisted to face the front one more, and caught O'Neill's eye as he turned. The Colonel had been making exactly the same surreptitious check-up on Jackson, who was lagging a short distance behind Hart.

The path opened wide enough to accommodate two persons at once, and Caliburn fell into step beside O'Neill. "This Stargate we're looking for," he began: "What is it like?"

"Oh, you can't miss it. It's about fifteen feet high, round, and it has lots of really neat squiggles carved around the outside. And there's a control, ahhh, thing nearby, with a sort of red glowing, ahhh, thing in the middle."

Rhys looked at him. "Use a lot of technical terms, then, do you?"

"Hey, go easy on us. We're making this up as we go along."

"So I've noticed," said Caliburn sourly, and ignored the dark glance which the Colonel shot at him in response. "Where did it come from? The Gate? I mean, I assume you didn't build yours, not if they're all over the show, like Tube stops."

"No, we didn't build ours." O'Neill shrugged. "Although I for one would like to meet the guys who did. We found it. Dug it up."

"In the US?"

"Ahh... no. In Egypt."

Rhys considered this. "So essentially you're saying that this thing belongs in the first place to some kind of Galactic equivalent to a civic council, or failing that to the Egyptians, but actually America spirited it away and now you're popping through it on a regular basis just to see what's out there?"

"Hey, if we hadn't figured out that the damn thing was more than a glorified lawn ornament, it'd still be sitting in some museum gathering dust."

"And we wouldn't be wandering about in a tropical forest when we should be in Cornwall!" returned Rhys.

"Your point being?"

"My point being, you got lucky. And instead of standing by saying nothing while we got sucked into this mess, you could have said something a little bit earlier."

"Like what?"

"Stand back would have sufficed!" snapped Rhys, losing his temper.

O'Neill stopped walking and turned to face him, looking slightly ridiculous in his leaf and soil stained white dress shirt and dark trousers. Ahead, Teal'c drew up, while behind them Jackson and Hart stopped as well. "You could try being glad that we're here," said the Colonel angrily, "because if we weren't, you wouldn't have the first damn clue what happened or how to get back."

"You'll have to excuse my lack of gratitude, Colonel. I'm having a hard time seeing how the circumstances merit it."

Rhys swivelled on his heel and prepared to walk on, but stopped when he nearly collided with Teal'c's upheld palm. "Be still," he said.

Caliburn gaped at him. What the bloody hell was this supposed to be, an impromptu anger management class?

"What is it, Teal'c?" asked Jackson.

"I hear water."

Jackson let out a sigh of relief, and hopped ahead of Rhys and O'Neill to follow in the direction Teal'c indicated; Hart was close behind him. Rhys made to follow them, giving O'Neill a black look as he did so. "This discussion is not over," he said.

"Not on this side of the Pond either, Major."

They set off behind the others.

**Three**

A sycamore seed, spinning in the air. Floating on the breeze, carried by the force of air from below. Lighter than a pin, yet somehow the beating of its green blades against the air was more noise than Sam could bear.

Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthump—

She woke with a start, took a second to orient herself. She was lying sprawled across the top of the covers of the huge bed, one leg sticking out at an ungainly angle from the gap in the hotel bathrobe she was wearing. The piece of paper she had stared at uselessly for hours before drifting into unconsciousness still rested on top of her stomach. She must have been exhausted: she had not stirred at all in her sleep.

She sat up and swung her legs off the bed, scattering papers and books on to the floor. Some time after midnight a courier had arrived with the full transcript of the results of the tests Yarrow's team had been carrying out during the eclipse. The Professor's theory concerning the fluctuating EM fields around the Stones, she quickly saw, had been correct: the graphical representations of the fields came in the form of a series of print-outs of wave forms which shifted and changed over the course of the eclipse. Sam had never seen anything quite like it, and under other circumstances would have been fascinated by the phenomenon. Currently she had other concerns.

She rummaged around in the piles of paper until she located the print outs whose time signatures indicated the measurements which they recorded had been made at eleven minutes past eleven. Totality. The wave form, as far as Sam could tell, was just another wave form. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in the data to indicate what had caused the wormhole at the Stones to open.

She shook her head. No, that wasn't quite correct. It was patently obvious what had caused the wormhole to open: the eclipse occurring overhead could hardly have been a fortuitous coincidence. But given that she had no way to generate another eclipse, she had to find the link between the wormhole and the forces which had acted on the Maidens during those strange minutes at totality, and reproduce them.

No naquada, she thought. No DHD, no series of glyphs, no power source. Just nineteen granite rocks in a field.

And the Colonel, Daniel and Teal'c could be anywhere.

She stared at the print-out she was holding and traced her index finger along the dipping and rising line.

Damn, she thought, but we've really gone and done it this time.

There was a sharp knock at the hotel room's door.

Sam discarded the print-out and blinked at the clock on the bedside table. Seven o'clock. She got up and staggered to the door, expecting room service, or perhaps another delivery of the papers and reference books which she had requested.

She opened the door, and stared blankly at Lieutenant Sheldrick.

"I need to know what the hell this is all about," he said, the words tumbling out over each other as if he was afraid that pausing between them might reduce his chances of finishing the sentence.

Carter cleared the sleep from her eyes and stepped back, allowing him into the room. A small cut on his face was already healing over, but otherwise he looked, if it were possible, worse than she felt. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed exhaustion, while the expression within them showed confusion and incomprehension.

"Lieutenant," she said, "I can't tell you that. I'm sorry."

He shook his head angrily. "Captain, what I saw yesterday... That was impossible. The ground opened up and..." He broke off. His mouth continued to move but no words came out. Sam waited while he attempted to sort it out, watching as he tried in vain to fit the experience into his established understanding of how the world ought to work. With sudden clarity he looked directly at her. "Are they dead?" he asked.

She returned his gaze, seeing the desperate hope in his face. He deserved to know that much. "No," she told him. "It's just that they're... temporarily elsewhere."

Sheldrick nodded slowly, and sat down heavily on the end of the unmade bed. "When I saw them vanish...the Major, then Del...I thought..." he looked up: "They're not dead?" he asked again.

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. "They're not dead. And I'm going to figure out how to bring them home, Lieutenant."

"Home from where?"

She didn't answer. "Where's Doyle?"

"Still in debriefing at the Ministry. What I've been doing all night. I came here as soon as they let me out."

No wonder Sheldrick looked so grey: he'd spent the hours since the accident being forced to describe it over and over again in fine detail for Pinker and his fellow intelligence ghouls. Sam felt a sudden stab of anger that the man could not have been given at least a few hours' grace before they descended upon him. "Lie down," she instructed him. "And never let it be said my bed isn't open to everybody."

The reward for this weak attempt at humour was a faint smile, as Sheldrick leaned back into the still-warm covers. Sam headed for the bathroom picking up her clothes on the way. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and washed her teeth and face. She slipped off her bathrobe and allowed it to fall to the tiled floor, then began to dress, pulling on underwear, nylons, her uniform skirt and blouse.

She shrugged on her jacket, and frowned.

Something tickled her neck, below the hairline. She reached up and her probing fingers soon located and retrieved the annoyance. She held it up under the beauty cabinet light, and examined it carefully. It was a sycamore seed.

It must have blown into her hair when the helicopter landed, and then nestled under her collar all the way back to the Ministry and then the hotel. She held the seed between her thumb and forefinger and then, with a brief twisting action, released it into the air. She watched it twirl into the sink, its spinning wings the natural inspiration for the helicopter's beating blades.

She stared.

"Oh my God," she whispered. That was it. A sycamore seed was nature's helicopter. The Stones marked nature's Gate. The Stones were merely stones, but the ground they marked, on the other hand...

She thought rapidly.

There was a perforation in space in the Cornish countryside. Whoever had built the stone circle had recognised and marked it. Most of the time, the Stones were only stones, like a sycamore seed attached to its parent tree. But then, once every few millennia, a breeze passed by- or a particularly strong gravitational surge caused by the temporary alignment of Earth, moon and sun as the totality of an eclipse swept overhead- and shook it free. Then the seed flew, and the passage to somewhere else opened.

She pushed her right foot into a shoe and hopped back into the bedroom still levering her left heel into place. "Sheldrick. Sheldrick!"

He sat up as she flung the bathroom door open in front of herself, and looked slightly nervous at her wild-haired, wilder-eyed approach. "I've got it," said Sam. "I know how we can get them back. Have you got a car?"

He stared at her. "They're somewhere we can drive to?"

Sam shook her head emphatically. "No, no, no. I need a ride. I need to find Doyle."

"Doyle? Why Doyle?"

"Because he made contact with the event horizon." Sheldrick looked at her blankly. "Okay. That means nothing to you. Bear with me." She paced up and down the room, talking to herself, nailing down her thoughts by vocalising them. "We can take an accurate resonance sounding from Doyle, back home. Then we can tweak our Gate to match the resonance. Hell, it could work. It could." Sheldrick was still frowning, and Sam gripped him by the arms and grinned at him. "I think I know how to follow them."

"And bring them back?" he asked slowly.

"I hope so."

"Right you are then." He got up. "We'll get Doyle and do it."

Sam shook her head emphatically. "Lieutenant," she said, "You really don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"So tell me."

"I can't." She turned and moved towards the door, looking away from him. "I have my orders too. You're just going to have to trust me."

Her hand was resting on the door handle when he next spoke. Sam was not sure what she had expected- anger, maybe, incomprehension, some attempt at persuasion. She was not prepared for the calm, measured appeal she heard.

"Captain, I came here because no one else is telling me anything. I know about secrecy. But Del, Major Caliburn... They're my patrol."

Sam let go of the doorknob and turned around. "And Daniel and Teal'c and the Colonel are my team." Sheldrick's tired, grey face looked back at her, a faint glimmer of hope easing the lines around his eyes. How important are secrets now? she thought. Damn Minstry used them as guinea pigs.

 

"I could use your help."

He gave her a tired but sincere grin.

"Where to, ma'am?"

"Right now, to the Ministry. After that..." Sam grabbed her room key from the bedside table: "Your guess is as good as mine."

* * *

The stream Teal'c had located was small, but the water it channelled was fresh and clear, and hostilities were suspended while they drank. This done, a rest break was agreed by mutual consent, and they sat around on the moist, bare soil, fanning themselves with fallen leaves and saying little.

"You didn't mention the Goa'uld?" asked Daniel softly, taking an empty patch of ground beside Jack.

O'Neill treated him to his most withering look. "No, Daniel, I did not tell him about the Goa'uld. I didn't think letting him in on the existence of the legions of body-snatching slugs who we've managed to piss off royally in the recent past would go down well at this point."

"Just asking."

"Yeah. Sorry." O'Neill leaned back into a bank of soft moss and pulled at the sleeves of his filthy shirt. "I wouldn't mind except that he has a point. The Major over there and his men were sent to Cornwall as bait in a trap set for us. I thought if we didn't talk to them we'd avoid falling into it." He gave a wry smile. "We fell into it anyway. Literally. We would have been better off if we'd sat down with them the minute we arrived and told them everything about the SGC and the Gate. If we'd done that, we'd probably be enjoying the local beer with them somewhere in downtown Plymouth right now."

Daniel looked at him doubtfully. "Downtown Plymouth?"

"Whatever the Brits say."

"You know, I don't think we're the first people to use this stream as a source of drinking water."

The switch of topic was abrupt and unannounced, but that was Daniel. In the ten second lull in the conversation, thought Jack, his brain had probably made the run from beer to the possibility of native life and back again at least a dozen times. He wouldn't even be aware of a jump in the discussion thread: to Daniel, thoughts and ideas flowed like water downhill, fast and fluid as quicksilver.

Impressive. But damned annoying to talk to sometimes. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, stuff," said Daniel vaguely. "The way the moss is crushed over there. That dip in the rock. Little things."

Jack looked, and began to see what he meant. In fact, now that he looked carefully, he thought he could see a pattern in the disruption to the otherwise lush undergrowth. "Is that a trail?"

"Could be." Daniel got up. "I'll take a look."

"Don't wander too far," said Jack automatically.

Daniel mumbled an assent as he clambered away, up the slope of the stream. Elsewhere, Hart gave a sudden exclamation of pain. Caliburn looked around sharply. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"I tore my hand on a bush a way back, sir."

"Let's see it." The Major took hold of Hart's right hand and manipulated it into a rare shaft of sunlight breaking through the tree canopy above. Jack shuffled down the bank to join them, and saw Teal'c draw closer as well. "How's your field medicine, Colonel?" asked Caliburn.

Jack spread his hands apologetically. "Basic first aid. I could kiss it better, though," he added brightly.

"Is the bleeding severe?" asked Teal'c.

"No, it's just..." Caliburn stopped, and Jack leaned into the light to see what was concerning the Major. The wound on Hart's hand oozed a little blood, but it was not deep, and superficially there seemed to be little to worry about. But there was a sticky residue, like sap, clinging to the exposed edges of flesh, and the skin around the cut was blistering and swelling in a way which it should not have been.

"It looks like it could do with a wash," said Caliburn, and guided Hart's hand under the running water. As he moved, Jack saw a crescent of red welts rising on the back of the Major's neck.

"What happened to you?" Caliburn looked up, frowning, and Jack raised a hand to his own neck, suddenly aware of the itch that was developing there and on his forearms. "Did we go through a nightshade patch or something?"

Caliburn rubbed at his neck and winced. "The vegetation mustn't be very friendly."

"Great," said Jack. "All we need now is stinging ants, and we're in paradise."

The yell of surprise and pain from the top of the stream was as unexpected as it was penetrating; Caliburn and Teal'c began to scrabble up the bank immediately, but Jack was faster, and reached the source of the cries first. Daniel was kneeling, one leg half in the water, his hands caged around his face.

"Oh God. My eyes- my eyes- oh God-"

Jack knelt by him and attempted gently to prise his locked fingers away from his face. Daniel was still wearing his glasses. How bad could it be?

"Colonel," said Caliburn, warning in his voice.

Jack turned and saw an innocuous looking red flower-bud bulging from a bush whose branches overhung the stream. The bud bobbed up and down, then, without warning, popped. A fine red mist filled the air within an inch of the flower, then dissipated.

"Okay," said Jack reassuringly, "you're okay. You got a little pollen in your eyes, Danny, that's all. What were you doing, looking for an addition to your pressed flowers collection?"

"O'Neill." Another voice: Teal'c this time. Jack looked again, and saw what he had observed- a dusting of the heavier pollen grains had fallen on the leaves of another shrub, growing below the first.

They disintegrated.

"Shit," breathed Jack. Then: "Water. Let him at the water."

He pulled Daniel's hands away from his face, and removed his glasses with equal force. The plastic surface of the lenses was warped and decaying. Next, he man-handled Daniel through a one hundred and eighty degree turn and down to the babbling water, grimly ignoring the incoherent cries of agony the movement provoked.

"Teal'c. Caliburn. Help me."

Teal'c supported Daniel at his left side; Jack allowed the Major to replace himself at the right while he put his hands together, dipped them in the water and lifted cupped palms streaming with the clear, clean liquid to Daniel's face. The cries became high-pitched whines of pain as the cold hit Daniel's raw and blistering skin, and Jack saw the other men tense with the effort of holding him steady as he instinctively tried to buck away from the this new source of hurt. Jack tried not to focus on the suffering he was causing the younger man; instead he concentrated on the necessity of getting the plant's noxious secretions out of his eyes before any permanent damage was done.

He was afraid it might be too late already to prevent that.

The delicate skin around Daniel's eyes was rising in angry red blisters, the flesh swelling so fast that his eyelids had already been forced shut.

"It hurts, oh shit it hurts, it hurts, oh God oh God..."

"Easy, take it easy, Danny," soothed Jack. He called a halt to the mechanical routine of lifting the water, pouring it over Daniel's face, repeating the action. Daniel was soaking, hair plastered to his forehead, T-shirt sopping. O'Neill lifted the edge of his shirt, twisting it until he located a patch of material that was still relatively clean, and dabbed the excess water away. Daniel moaned and rocked back and forward.

"He's in shock," said Caliburn.

"So would you be." Jack sat back on his heels, watched as Teal'c and Caliburn released Daniel gently on to the ground, where he lay on his side, moaning. "We need to bandage his eyes. Hart, give me your shirt."

The Sergeant unbuttoned his green shirt, stripping to the sweat-stained vest he was wearing underneath, and began to reach it over to Jack. Suddenly he froze.

"Dammit Hart," said O'Neill with irritation, "just give me the-"

"O'Neill," interrupted Teal'c quietly.

Jack looked up.

"Oh shit," he said.

* * *

All in all, thought Sam, the morning was progressing much more productively than she could have hoped.

They had fought their way through Thursday morning rush hour traffic in reasonable time, chiefly due to Sheldrick's battlefield-style driving. Once at the MOD they split up, Carter to make contact with SGC and run her plan by the General, and Sheldrick to find Doyle. When the lift doors opened on the Ministry's entrance lobby, Sam was greeted by the sight of the Lieutenant waiting for her with the Corporal in tow. The gold rimmed, ornate clock set high in the lobby's wall read half past ten. Sam nodded to herself. Not bad going.

"Captain?" asked Sheldrick as she approached.

"We're all set," she informed him. "The General's given us the go-ahead. We'll go to the US embassy next: he's arranged travel from there. We'll be at the base by this evening."

"Ahh, I wouldn't be so certain of that, Captain."

The silky, sly voice was the last one Sam wanted to hear at that moment, and she turned around as slowly as she could, hoping she was wrong. She wasn't. Mr Pinker stood just behind them, immaculate in a fresh grey suit, smiling thinly.

"Mr Pinker," said Sam: "We have five men missing. I'm trying to find them. You can help me or you can get out of my way."

 

"I do appreciate the gravity of the situation," he replied evenly. "But I've just received a call from Major Caliburn's commanding officer. The Brigadier is rather irate. He wants to know why two of his men have vanished and why the American military wants to spirit two more out of the country without going through the proper channels."

"With respect, sir," said Sheldrick, "The Americans have made a request for our aid. Due to the urgent nature of the situation, we thought it best to help first and fill in the relevant forms later." He smiled pleasantly at Pinker. "And, begging your pardon, I'm not sure I see how this is any of your bloody business."

Pinker smiled back at Sheldrick, but his eyes remained fixed on Carter. "Captain Carter, may I have a word with you in private?"

Sam hesitated, debating the wisdom of telling him exactly where to go and dealing with the consequences later. But the little spook's smug smile bothered her. He had the look of a man who knows he holds the winning hand. "By all means."

Sam followed Pinker down a long, marble floored hallway with led off the lobby, and allowed him to hold the door for her as they entered one of the succession of box-like offices which lined it. Once inside, he squeezed through the small gap between the desk and the wall, and sat down behind the heavy oak table, holding out a hand and indicating that she should sit also. She did so, warily. Somehow she didn't even trust this man's soft furnishings.

"I'll come straight to the point," said Pinker. "You can't take them."

She regarded him coolly. "I have permission from my superiors. I have their co-operation. Perhaps you'd like to justify that?"

Pinker shrugged easily. "If you want to co-opt Lieutenant Sheldrick and Corporal Doyle into any American military operation, you'll need approval from their unit and ultimately from the Ministry. It could take up to six weeks. If it's granted."

"No games, Mr Pinker," said Carter sharply. "Unless you're planning to have us arrested, the Lieutenant and the Corporal are walking out of here with me. Political consequences be damned."

"Political consequences," echoed Pinker. "Interesting that you should put it like that."

Sam stood up and made to leave. "You know, I really don't have time for this crap. If you have something to say, say it."

He smiled again. "I have nothing to say." His voice became silken and soft. "I do, however, have something to show you."

His tone hardened, the vague undertones of threat crystallising into something barbed and almost tangible. Carter felt a chill in the bottom of her stomach as she hesitated at the door, realising the truth. He held a trump card.

Abruptly, Pinker got up and, crossing to an anonymous grey filing cabinet, unlocked the top drawer. He pulled out a plain A-4 brown envelope, which he handed to her. "I think you'll find these rather... interesting."

Carter opened the sealed envelope, running one thumbnail under the adhesive flap and sliding out the contents. Five large black and white photographs tumbled out.

She looked at the first. Then the second. She turned to Pinker. "Where did you get these?"

He smiled. "You should know where they're from, Captain. You're in them." He leaned past her, in an overly-intimate manner, and tapped the glossy paper of the uppermost image. "That's you there, on that stretcher. Of course, you were unconscious when this was taken, so I can understand if you don't recall the exact circumstances. But you must recognise the rest of your observation team. This fellow here, on the stretcher next to you, that's Colonel O'Neill, and that gentleman standing on the edge of the shot and looking so touchingly concerned, that's Dr Jackson."

Sam stared at him, lips pressed tightly shut.

"The pictures were taken at St Andrew's RAF base, inside the Antarctic Circle. That's where you and Colonel O'Neill were flown out of- this was about a year and a half ago. Remember?" He shook his head. "The Antarctic is international territory, Captain. A lot of people watch what happens there very closely indeed. And I personally found it very curious that the US Air Force evacuated two injured officers from a region which had been blizzard bound and completely cut off for the previous three months. No way in. Not by land or sea or air. You take my point?"

Sam said nothing.

"And then there was this." Pinker lifted away the top four photographs, exposing the final shot. It had been taken in perfect Antarctic conditions, clear and bright, and the resolution was so sharp that Sam almost winced at the contrast between light and dark. It showed a group of Air Force personnel supervising as two thick cables suspended from a crane lowered some evidently heavy object into an enormous transport crate. When the camera's shutter had closed and preserved the moment, the procedure had been almost completed, and only the very top of the object was visible, peeping up over the rim of the huge wooden box. It was curved and dark, and Sam didn't have to see any more of it to know what it was. The second Stargate.

"Of course, very little of the object is visible, but what little detail can be made out is quite fascinating. Take this, for example." Pinker rested one finger on the faint outline of one of the carvings at the crest of the Gate. Sam noticed that he had no cuticles to speak of, and that the nail was round and even. She wondered, absurdly, if he went to a beautician for his manicures or did them himself. "The enlargement is clearer. Here." He handed her yet another image, this time of the magnified symbol. It was the capped A-shape of the seventh glyph.

"I'm not going to condescend by asking if you recognise it. It's clear you do. Now you understand why Professor Yarrow's work has attracted more interest than it might otherwise have done."

He stopped speaking, and returned to his side of the desk, taking his time as he settled back into the padded, high backed chair. Sam took a silent, measured breath. When she met his gaze her composure was absolute. "Mr Pinker, you have a marvellous imagination. Colonel O'Neill and myself are pilots. It's not uncommon in the Air Force. We were on a training flight and we crashed. We were very lucky to survive. These photographs..." She deposited the sheaf of images on the desk: "I don't know anything about them."

Pinker made no reply for several long seconds. Then he reached into a drawer in the desk and withdrew a bundle of pages, paperclipped together. Wordlessly, he pushed it over the desktop to Sam.

She glanced down at it, and read the TITLE at the top of the first sheet with dismay. Traversible Wormholes: Theory and Implications. By Capt. Dr. S. E. Carter.

 

"Quote from the conclusion: Such a phenomenon, if it could be harnessed, would not be limited in range as are conventional forms of space exploration. Traversible wormholes would become not merely our gates to the planets of this solar system, but our gates to the stars." He sat back and when he finally spoke again his voice was so soft that the hum of traffic from the street outside almost drowned it out: "Gates to the stars. An evocative little phrase. But Stargate is so much punchier, isn't it?"

Damn him. He knew.

"Why do you think your government agreed to send you here, Captain Doctor? It certainly wasn't out of a commitment to international co-operation and the advancement of science. We gathered the evidence and came to the correct conclusions, and when we asked for an appropriate team to observe at the Cornwall experiment, we made it quite clear that if no such team was forthcoming, we would table a motion at the UN enquiring what the Americans were doing removing unique archaeological treasures from international territory without telling anyone. And no one wanted that unhappy outcome. Political consequences, you see."

Sam stared at him, keeping her gaze steady. She was tempted to continue to stonewall, to let him talk himself hoarse then walk out of here and find a way around him. But she didn't have the time for lengthy diplomatic manoeuvring, and she didn't know how extensive or solid Mr Pinker's power base was.

Spooks were famous for cutting deals. It was time to cut and run.

"Mr Pinker," she said: "I don't give a damn what you know or think you know. There are five men lost out there. My orders are to bring them home."

Pinker smiled, and visibly relaxed. He had won, Sam realised, and he knew it. "I have no objection to that, Captain. I don't want an international incident any more than you do. But if you're taking Sheldrick and Doyle anywhere, then it's on one condition."

He sat back in the plush, high backed chair and templed his hands together in front of face, fingertips meeting to form a cage, a trap of flesh and bone.

"I'm coming too."

* * *

Bad things come in threes, thought Jack morosely as he sat and attempted to make himself comfortable on the uneven, damp floor of the hut which had become their new home. So, number one, getting duped into coming to this God-forsaken, chlorophyll-ridden hole in the first place; number two, Danny getting an eyeful of magic dust, and number three, the natives.

Ah yes. The natives.

The group of ten men who had surrounded them at the stream had made for an imposing welcoming committee. They had stood in complete silence for as long as several minutes, aiming an impressive arsenal of razor-tipped implements in the direction of the five newcomers as they tried to decide whether what they had stumbled across was friend or foe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Caliburn's hand edge towards the holster at his belt in which his sidearm rested, then stop as the Major thought better of the action. Jack felt a profound sense of relief: outnumbered two to one, he suspected that any rash action by any member of his party would have resulted in a swift and bloody death.

After a silence which seemed to extend for years rather than minutes, the leader of the group had stepped forward, spear extended. His short woven tunic was dyed a dark green colour, which served to accentuate the rich chocolate timbre of his skin. All in all, thought Jack, in Levis and a sweatshirt, he would not have looked out of place in the shopping district of Colorado Springs.

Apart from the hair.

His hair was white. Not grey, or blonde, or dark at the roots: white. As was that of each of his nine companions. The effect was startling in the extreme.

The native took another tentative step forward and lowered his weapon, although not fully. He looked down at Daniel, who was crouched on the ground, moaning, unaware of the drama unfolding above his head. Then the forest dweller looked at O'Neill.

The only sound was the splashing of water over algae-slickened rocks and the hoot of strange creatures in the canopy.

"Well," said Jack finally, "this is becoming socially awkward, isn't it?"

The white-haired man started- yes, Jack wasn't imagining it, he physically started. A ripple of interested movement passed around the watchers like the wave at a baseball game.

The hunter took another step forward. "You will come with us," he said clearly.

His commanding tone made it quite clear that the matter was not open to discussion. O'Neill looked to Caliburn, who gave a small, what-the-hell shrug. Then Jack motioned to Teal'c to help him pull Daniel to his feet, and they set off down the forest track which ran parallel to the stream, flanked left and right, forward and back by their new, armed friends.

**Four**

The clock on the infirmary wall informed Andy that it was seven o'clock in the evening. His body was convinced that it was in fact much later, and the long journey they had endured to get here- London Heathrow to RAF Lyneham to Denver to an airstrip in the middle of nowhere- was providing persuasive supporting evidence. He stifled a yawn and flipped over the pages of the US Air Force recruiting brochure in which he was feigning interest. It was either that or talk to Pinker, and Andy wasn't that desperate for conversation.

NORAD had not been much of a surprise. He had heard about the place over the years, and had been briefed on its functions and facilities more than once. He had known about the three miles of tunnels, the three foot thick blast doors at the main entrance and the surface buildings set atop mammoth metal springs which were designed to serve as shock absorbers in the event of a missile strike.

He had not known about the second set of doors located deep within the facility itself, about the personnel and freight lifts which they concealed. He had not known about the second, self contained unit which nestled inside the heart of Cheyenne Mountain, inside NORAD itself, like the smallest sister in a set of Russian dolls. When the elevator doors had opened, many, many storeys below the surface, Andy had found himself in a plain metal corridor whose dull grey walls and gridded floor put him in mind of a submarine which had become hopelessly lost and had somehow resurfaced through the continental shelf into the American mid-west.

The plain sign on the corridor wall opposite him had read, Welcome to Stargate Command.

 

And underneath it, a second, hand-written notice was taped to the wall: SGC Interstellar Travel. Adventure Vacations our Speciality.

Barmy, thought Andy. They're all stark raving barmy.

 

There was a noise from the door which connected the waiting room to the ward and Sheldrick looked up to see Carter returning with Doyle.

"Did you get it?"

The Captain nodded, and held up a print-out, which resembled nothing more complex than a wave-form, dipping and rising unevenly across a pair of axes. "This is the signature of the residual field which Corporal Doyle here picked up during his contact with the wormhole," said the Captain. "It took a couple of attempts, but this is as clear and accurate a reading as we need."

Andy looked doubtfully at the piece of paper. "And that's going to help us?"

"Yes. Every time we open a Gate here to a new destination, the field generated at the event horizon is unique. We keep records of each one. Through the Corporal here, we now know the signature field for the wormhole linked to the Maidens in Cornwall."

"So you can match it up to all your records and find where they went?" asked Pinker.

"Probably not," said Carter. "They didn't leave here through a Gate. It's probable that they didn't arrive through one either."

"Then what's the point of all this?"

"I think that the Stones in Cornwall mark a natural weakness in the fabric of space. When the eclipse passed overhead, the alignment created a gravitational punch which briefly blasted the potential wormhole open. That implies that there's a corresponding weakness somewhere else. So we should be able to tune into it using our Gate."

"How?" asked Pinker.

"Trial and error," said Carter. "I'll run a matching query through our database of Gate signatures until I find the closest one we have on record to this. Then we'll open the Gate and overload it deliberately. When the wormhole jumps away from the receiving Gate, we'll tweak the field at interface on this side until it's as close to this-" she shook the print out for emphasis: "-as possible. It's the same principle as tuning a radio into the station you want. We'll tune in the gate, then we'll walk through and hope we end up where the others went."

Carter smiled brightly, as if any of the foregoing had made any sense whatsoever. Sheldrick looked to Doyle for help.

"The Gates work like fax machines," said Doyle. "You can only send faxes from one fax machine to another, yeah? Well, they're about to try and send a fax from here to a place where there's no receiving fax machine."

"That fax being us," said Andy sceptically. He looked to Carter. "Is this going to work?"

She folded the print-out in half and tucked it in a pocket. "Ask me again when we've done it."

"How long will it take?"

"Not more than a couple of hours, I hope. In the meantime, you'll be equipped and briefed. Then we'll leave- if you still want to come."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Pinker.

Carter glared at him, and Andy wondered- again- what circumstances had forced the spook's inclusion on this excursion. He certainly wasn't here because the Captain had taken a liking to him. "We started off here with nine four-man recon teams," she said icily. "Hand picked individuals, the best from each of the services. And still personnel turnover in the first six months was forty per cent. Gate travel is like nothing else you've done before. Not everyone can adapt to it. If you have any doubts about your ability to handle it, you'll be doing everyone a favour if you stay here."

"Captain," replied Pinker coldly: "I can assure you, you have no reason to be concerned about me."

"I hope so, Mr Pinker," said Carter, her eyes as steely as the infirmary's gunmetal walls, "Because I intend to bring those men home, and if you're coming with me you'd damn well better not be a risk to the mission." She stepped back, and regarded all of them with equal severity. "Am I making myself clear, gentlemen?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Doyle quietly. "Crystal."

* * *

"They speak English," said Hart in tones of amazement.

"Yeah," replied Jack, "a lot of them do. It's kinda weird."

Caliburn raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Aliens from the other side of the galaxy not only look like us- more or less- but they speak English better than my Great Aunt Gweirfyl, and all you can say is that it's kind of weird?"

 

O'Neill shrugged. "What should I say? I can't explain it. Carter has this theory that the Gates have some sort of in-built mechanism which re-wires the language centres of the brain for whatever destination you dial, but if that's true, it doesn't work for inscriptions or writing and we haven't unravelled the technology enough to find the proof yet. Daniel thinks it might be a case of, umm, convergent development- y'know, all roads lead to Rome kind of thing. But that strikes me as somewhat far fetched."

Hart stared at him. "Far fetched? Like this whole bloody camping trip isn't far fetched?"

"Mind your tongue, Sergeant," growled Caliburn.

"O'Neill."

At the sound of Teal'c's low, insistent summons, Jack made his way across the damp, earthy floor of the hut in which they had been imprisoned on arrival at the hunters' village. The settlement was not large: on their swift, escorted passage through it, Jack had guessed that there were about a hundred huts and shelters of varying sizes. Although small and primitive, the dwellings and other buildings were neatly laid out and immaculately kept, the simple houses in good repair and the lanes between them swept and clean. There were, Jack noticed, no flower gardens, no vegetable patches, and not even so much as a window box was in evidence around the dwellings. As they were taken to the sturdy hut which appeared to serve as the local jail, he observed several organised teams of natives industriously weeding out the scraps of greenery which had begun to grow inside the village walls. There was one exception to the general rule of barrenness. A gnarled and ancient tree grew in the centre of the settlement. Alone among the alien plantlife, its shape and leaves were familiar, and Jack saw Caliburn react with the same surprise that he felt at the unexpected appearance of something so ordinary in such an extraordinary place. The village was built around an oak tree.

Jack was quickly amassing a whole list of questions to which he would very much have liked to have answers. Although for the moment, only one of them was worth asking out loud.

"How is he?" he asked quietly as he joined Teal'c at Daniel's side.

"Daniel Jackson has a high fever. He needs treatment quickly."

Jack laid a hand on Daniel's forehead, above the mess of bruised and blistered flesh which hid his eyes, feeling the blast-furnace heat of a raging temperature before he made contact with the archaeologist's sweat-shiny skin. Privately, he was amazed that Daniel had made it this far- the march through the jungle as prisoners had exhausted them all, God alone knew how Daniel had managed to stay on his feet for the duration, even with the physical support which the others had taken it in turns to provide.

"Could an infection take hold this quickly?"

"I do not believe it is an infection. It is more likely a reaction to the flower's poison."

"Whatever the hell it is, he's fighting a losing battle with it." Jack took hold of Daniel's hand and gripped it tightly. "Daniel. C'mon, Danny. Stay with us." There was no response, except perhaps that the strained whimpering sounds coming from the mat eased momentarily.

Damn it, thought Jack, after so much, to get taken out by a flower...

The door of the hut opened, affording a brief glimpse of the guards who kept watch at its entrance. A woman stepped between them, her shadow falling before her in the bright sunshine.

She was small-framed, dark-skinned and, like the men, wore her long white hair hanging tied back from her face and shoulders. Her dress was similar to theirs as well, with one difference: she wore a sash woven from dried, twisted vines over one shoulder. It fell to the opposite side of her waist, and was decorated with clutches of small fabric pouches. Jack wondered if it was practical or ornamental, but couldn't decide. For all he knew, plaited vine sashes were the accessory all the chic alien girls were wearing.

As the door shut firmly behind her, she hovered just inside the hut's entrance, gripping the basket she was carrying tightly against her, as if it were a shield. Jack had the distinct impression that she was terrified.

"Well," said Hart, ostensibly to Caliburn: "at least the prison visitors are pretty."

The girl smiled timorously, and came forward. She set the basket on the floor, in the manner of an offering.

"I am Daron. I am to see to your needs. There is food and water here."

Jack reached into the basket, and found it piled high with fruits, vegetables and other items he could not readily identify, but which looked edible. God, he was hungry. There was a pitcher of water too. He wondered if Daron would take it the wrong way if he kissed her and offered to sire her children. Hmmm. Probably not the best opening to diplomatic relations. He chose a piece of fruit at random and bit into it, before handing the basket on. The flesh was sweet and cold and tasted like nothing he had ever eaten before. "Thank you, Daron," he said, mouth full. Ooops, Jack, table manners. He swallowed. "I'm Jack. This is Teal'c and Daniel."

The Major accepted the basket and selected a flat, biscuit-like cake. "Major Rhys Caliburn, ma'am. This is Sergeant Derek Hart."

Daron smiled again. "Caliburn. This is also a name among us."

Caliburn's fluid Welsh accent lent a gentle lyricism to his words. "Where I come from, Daron is a name too."

Finishing the fruit, Jack pulled a face. There was diplomacy and then there was brown-nosing. But at least they were being fed rather than led out for execution. "Our friend is injured," he said, indicating Daniel's quietly trembling form.

Daron nodded. "Idris told me." She lifted a hand and detached two small pouches from the sash she wore, and opened them. Although both were tiny, the sweet, herby aromas their contents threw out quickly suffused the hut's close interior. She approached Daniel, casting nervous glances around her as she knelt. Not wanting to make her more anxious than she already was, Jack withdrew to a safe distance.

Carefully, Daron probed the skin around Daniel's eyes, noting how he twitched in agony at her touch. She turned to Jack: "What was the flower like that did this?"

"It was, ahhh... red. I think."

She looked at him like a cop who, on asking for a description of a suspect, receives the reply that he had two legs and a head. Jack realised more effort was required. "It was red with spiky leaves... and little white spots on the petals."

"White flecks? You are quite sure?"

Jack looked for help to Teal'c, who nodded. "We are certain."

Daron nodded and selected one of the two cloth bags. Emptying its contents into the palm of one hand, she popped the melange of dried leaves and seed pods into her mouth and chewed rapidly. After a minute or so, she delicately returned the doughy mass into her hand and, dividing it into two equal portions, pressed each one in turn into Daniel's eye sockets. This done, she dampened a heavy measure of fabric with water from the jug and laid it over the top half of his face, leaving his nose and mouth exposed. Jack watched her, scratching idly at the rash on his arm.

"Leave it." She did not look up from her work. "You will break the skin. I will bring salve."

Jack smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

Her task completed, Daron rose. Jack expected her to leave, and was surprised when she addressed herself to Teal'c. Raising a hand, she traced the outline of an oval on her forehead, mimicking the shape of his brand. "You are Jaffa, Teal'c."

He nodded. "I am."

"You do not wear the mark of Ra. Whom do you serve?"

"I am no longer a slave of the System Lords. I have pledged allegiance by choice to those you see here."

She looked at him and nodded, as if the answer pleased her.

"Dicenos would speak with you. Come with me."

She held out a hand. Teal'c looked to O'Neill for confirmation, and Jack nodded. Given the undoubted danger of their current situation, there was a part of him which did not want to let Teal'c out of his sight, but that would serve no useful purpose now. If these people wanted to talk to Teal'c, let them talk: he might find out something useful. Like the location of the nearest Stargate.

Daron led Teal'c to the door, and out into the sunshine. And then they were imprisoned again.

"What was that all about?" asked Hart.

Caliburn was looking at Jack with an expression of intense curiosity, coupled with crystallising realisation. "I think I have a fair idea. Your friend Mr Teal'c isn't human, is he?"

Jack sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the hut. Well, it had to come out eventually. Might as well be now. "He is human," he said: "At least, his great-great-whatever grand-daddy was. His people are called the Jaffa. They were harvested from Earth and genetically altered."

"Harvested? By who? For what purpose?"

"By creatures called the Goa'uld," said Jack heavily, "for the purpose of creating a race of slaves."

The Major blinked, and frowned. "Ghouls?"

Jack grinned without humour. "Yeah, that's close enough. The Goa'uld are parasites. They need a host species to survive, and humans are the current flavour of the month. The Jaffa are altered to carry Goa'uld larvae until they mature. I guess they're the lucky ones, because adult Goa'uld don't just live in the host's belly- they take over the mind."

Caliburn was staring at him, saying nothing, and Jack felt sympathy for the Major as he clearly struggled to assimilate this latest addition to the jumbled strangeness into which he had been plunged without his consent or foreknowledge. Finally, the Welshman asked: "Did the... Goa'uld... build the Gates?"

Jack shook his head. "No. But they use the network pretty extensively. We ran into them the first time we got the Gate on Earth to work and went through. Ever since then it's been running skirmishes." He hesitated, trying to decide how much more to say. He had realised almost as soon as they had arrived on this world that any ideas he might have had about not telling the Major about the Gates and what they did would have to be abandoned if they were to have any chance of making it home in one piece, and had decided then and there that he would happily share whatever secrets would maximise their hopes of survival. No, secrets were no longer the issue.

"Look," said Jack at last: "We're not just out here for the hell of it. We found the Gate, we started playing with it, and we screwed up big time. We made an enemy which has a higher level of technology than us, lives longer than us, is harder to kill and which is absolutely evil. We're out here looking for allies and weapons and we're hoping that we can put some kind of defence together before they decide to turn up on our doorstep." Again, he added silently.

Quietly, Caliburn said: "If Daron recognised your friend Mr Teal'c as a... Jaffa...wouldn't that suggest these people have a history with the Goa'uld? That they might in fact be here?"

"Yeah," admitted Jack. "Maybe."

Caliburn glanced at his Sergeant, then looked at O'Neill coldly. "As the representative of one nation to another," he said, "may I congratulate you on initiating our very first interstellar conflict."

Jack recalled Ra's ship, and the bright daytime firework it had briefly created in the blue sky over the dunes of Abydos. If only Caliburn knew just how personal that you was.

But that was one secret he wasn't about to admit to.

**Five**

"Chevron seven locked."

Carter was tapping rapidly at a keyboard located at the front desk of the SGC's control centre. From his position behind her left shoulder, Andy had a perfect view of the Gate Room below them.

The Gate itself, ancient and richly ornate, was strangely incongruous in the stark surroundings of the vault in which it had been installed. It would have looked more at home in the Antiquities section of some musty museum.

And then...

"Bloody hell," said Andy.

The air inside the empty circle shimmered momentarily, then exploded outwards in a burst of fluid motion. Sheldrick glanced at Doyle, and saw that the Corporal was wearing an astonished, dumb-struck smile of pure wonder. Even Pinker looked impressed.

Carter hadn't even glanced up from her work. "Confirm lock on PX-3728."

"Lock confirmed."

The Captain paused long enough to make eye contact with the technician seated at the central position. General Hammond stood quietly at the foot of the stairs at the back of the room. It was Carter's show. "Ready for overload?" she asked.

"Yes, Captain."

"On my mark... Now."

For several seconds, there was no apparent change in the curtain of light which hung within the carved ring below them. Then the meniscus of the field suddenly rippled across its surface, and swirled backwards. It was as if someone had pulled the plug out of a bathtub, and the water was spinning down the hole in a whirlpool.

"Gate integrity?" asked Carter, to no one in particular.

"Holding," responded a technician from the far side of the room.

The Captain nodded, satisfied. "Let's do it."

The technician hunched over one of the many screens in front of him and began to input a series of commands. Andy recognised the image on the VDU as the wave pattern from the print out Carter had shown them. It was superimposed over a second wave pattern, which Andy presumed to be the current reading from the Gate. As he watched, the second wave stretched, elongating and sliding until it approached the exact sequence of dips and curves of its steady companion. The two lines ran closer and closer to one another, nearly touching at points, then actually touching, and then blending and merging along their lengths until...

"Got it," reported the technician.

"Lock it now," said Carter. "Hold it!"

There was a pause. Andy realised he had been holding his breath. "Is that it?" he asked. "Did we get it?"

Carter looked down through the control room's thick viewing panels to the Gate Room, where the whirlpool had snapped forward into a watery, flat disc once again. "Well, we have a Gate to somewhere," she said.

Her assistant consulted another VDU, which was scrolling data at the limits of the human eye's ability to scan for meaning. "And it's not PX-3728."

Carter nodded. "That's good enough for me." She turned to Sheldrick, Doyle and Pinker. "Time to go travelling, gentlemen." And then she was heading out of the control room, consulting with the General as she left.

Doyle leaned close to Andy so that his whisper did not carry beyond themselves. "What if we said we had notes from our Mums? You know: Craig has a cold and can't go to another planet today."

Andy smiled, but could not dispel an underlying feeling of anxiety. "We've come this far. What's a few more billion miles?"

* * *

Rhys lay on his back, studying the patterns made by the sunlight as it penetrated the chinks in the hut's roof of layered branches. Teal'c had been gone for hours, and Daron, when she had returned with the promised salve for O'Neill's rash as well as a poultice for the gash in Hart's hand, would only say that Dicenos was still talking with him. Jackson's fever had broken and he appeared to be sleeping soundly; with little else to do, Rhys was attempting to follow the archaeologist's example. But in spite of physical exhaustion, he had been able to doze only for a little while in the sodden, hot air, and for some time now he had been feigning unconsciousness, welcoming the first few moments of privacy he'd had for several days.

He rolled over, and saw O'Neill sitting up against the hut's stout wooden side. His eyes were shut and his head was tipped back, and he seemed to be asleep.

"Jack?"

Dr Jackson's voice was shaky, almost tremulous, but Rhys saw the instant reaction hearing his name spoken produced in O'Neill. He straightened up and placed a hand on the archaeologist's arm. "Welcome back, Danny."

Not sleeping at all, Rhys realised.

"I need to ask you a question."

"Shoot." O'Neill leaned over the younger man and gently removed the strip of wet cloth and the herbal dressings underneath it. Even from across the room, Rhys could see that the swelling around his eyes and cheeks had abated considerably.

"It may sound a little weird, but it's important."

"Okay."

"So just answer it, right? No smart comments. Just a straight answer."

"Agreed."

"Is my nose still there?"

O'Neill's face contorted with the effort of withholding the laughter he obviously wanted desperately to release. "Yes," he said at last. "Still there."

"Oh, good," said Jackson, with relief. "My whole face is numb, I can't feel anything... and I woke up, and you know how it is when you get an idea..."

"Yeah. I know." O'Neill sat back against the wall again. "Daniel, I've been thinking, and I've made a decision...When we get back, no more flower arranging classes for you. It's too damn dangerous."

Jackson snorted with laughter, which emerged distorted by his puffy, swollen face. "And you never get into trouble on strange planets?"

"Name me one time," challenged O'Neill.

The response was instant: "P3X562."

"What can I say? It looked like your basic, standard issue alien blue crystal."

"P5F728."

"She drugged me."

"P4S584."

"How was I supposed to know it was going to explode?"

"That planet with the-"

"Enough already!"

Despite himself, Rhys smiled in the dimness- and looked up to find O'Neill grinning back at him. In the far corner, Hart snored softly.

"You didn't get to see the eclipse," said Jackson after a moment.

"Yeah, well, there'll be other eclipses."

"Not until next century... Hey, Jack- do you have my glasses?"

"Yeah, I got 'em safe."

"Good," said Jackson, satisfied, "because I'll need them later, when I get these bandages off."

O'Neill's grin faded, and Rhys knew why. The hut was gloomy but not dark; the many tiny shafts of sunlight forcing their way through the walls and roof made sure of that. One such shaft was falling directly on to Jackson's face, on to his open, staring eyes.

"You're going to be fine," said O'Neill.

But only Rhys saw the shadow which darkened his expression as he said it.

* * *

First he was stepping forward, then he was toppling, then falling, then rolling and ohgoditwassobloodycoldand...

Andy hit the ground, hard.

He rolled over on to his back, blinking in the bright sunshine. He was freezing. He felt sick. He felt worse than the time, when he was ten, that he'd eaten three ice creams in rapid succession and then insisted on going on the biggest rollercoaster at the Blackpool amusements.

"Sheldrick? Still with us?" Carter's face hovered into view above him.

"Bloody hell," Andy whispered. "That was..." he stopped, searching for an appropriate descriptive phrase. He couldn't think of one. "Bloody hell," he repeated.

Carter nodded, not without sympathy. "First time's a killer. You get used to it."

Yeah, thought Andy, and his first Sergeant had used to say the same thing about being shot. He hadn't believed him, either.

He picked himself up and saw Doyle doing the same. Pinker was emptying the contents of his stomach into the dirt behind one of the stones which formed the circle at the centre of which they currently stood.

Andy blinked, momentarily confused. "Are we back in Cornwall?"

"Not unless they've started a rainforest conservation programme there since we left," said Doyle. "Look."

He pointed with the muzzle of his weapon, and Sheldrick took in the thick layers of vegetation which pressed in around the circumference of the ring. Yet the area bounded by the stones was clear of all greenery. Bizarre.

The air was hot and humid; for these few brief moments, while he was still chilled from the transfer, it felt pleasant. It was going to be grim to walk through in a couple of hours, though.

Andy inhaled deeply, concentrating on the smell of the forest. The woody, sappy aromas were familiar, but there were other notes in the melange of scents too: exotic, pungent fragrances from fruits and flowers which were entirely foreign to him. As of course he should expect them to be. He was on another planet.

He was on another bloody planet.

Andy breathed out, and in again, trying to steady his breathing. Carter had been right: this was like nothing else he had ever done. Somewhere above them the wormhole they had fallen through dissolved and disappeared, and Sheldrick was hit by the sudden, frightening sensation of being alone and further from home than he had ever been before in his life. He felt terrified.

"This is brilliant!" announced Doyle, bounding over the alien earth to join him. "Isn't this totally brilliant?"

"Oh yes," said Andy indistinctly. "Absolutely bloody marvellous." But the Corporal was too busy investigating the clearing into which the wormhole had deposited them to hear him.

"Well, it looks as if they were here," said Carter. She was standing over the blackened remains of a camp fire, raked over with soil. Elsewhere, Andy could see the separate spots where the ground had been disturbed when it had been walked and slept on.

"Do you think somebody took them?" asked Pinker. He still looked a little green around the gills, but he was no longer throwing up.

"There are no signs of a struggle," said Carter, shaking her head. "It's been a couple of days. They would have had to leave to find water, at the very least. All we have to do is figure out which way they went."

Doyle grinned. "Shouldn't be too hard." Carter looked at him, and he beckoned the others over to join him, so they could see what he had found.

The three branches were sufficiently heavy that it was certain they had not been displaced by the elements or foraging animals since they had been positioned two days earlier. The arrangement, one branch straight and two angled against it, formed a perfect arrow.

"Follow that stick," said Carter.

They headed into the forest.

* * *

The tiny, wizened individual stared at Teal'c for fully two or more minutes before speaking.

"I am Dicenos," he said at last. "I am chief among the elders of the Keltoi."

Teal'c bowed respectfully, although the action did not bring him anywhere near as low as he needed to be to get below the level of the top of Dicenos' white-furred head. "I am honoured to speak with you. I am Teal'c."

"You are Jaffa."

"I am."

"And these men who have come with you, they are not Jaffa."

"They are not," confirmed Teal'c. "They are Tau'ri." He felt the need to clarify that statement, so he continued: "Although they are of different tribes among the Tau'ri."

"What is Tau'ri?"

Teal'c was momentarily silent. He had grown up with the stories and legends of the Tau'ri; among his people, the word carried with it a host of associations and myths, and he had found on his travels that the same was true on many of the worlds which the Goa'uld had seeded with humans. However far they had drifted from their origins, that one word, Tau'ri, whispered from mother to suckling child, seemed to endure, a reminder of a common inheritance. It seemed odd to him that it was not known here.

He tried again, with the word the Tau'ri used for themselves: "They are human. Their world is Earth."

"Aha." The old man's eye's lit up with a spark of interest. "And tell me of Earth."

"What do you desire to know?"

"Does Ra rule there still?"

Teal'c shook his head. "Ra is dead. The Tau'ri- the humans- have ruled themselves for many generations."

Dicenos motioned to one of the two warriors who stood impassively inside the door of his dwelling. Teal'c recognised one of them as having been the leader of the party which they had first encountered by the stream. "Idris, bring us tea."

Idris nodded, and ducked out of the hut's low doorway, returning moments later with a wooden, lidded jug which puffed small bursts of steam into the air as he carried it. Dicenos lifted two carved handle-less cups down from a hook driven into the wall, one dark wood and one light, and poured the piping water into each in equal measure. Teal'c looked at his doubtfully.

Dicenos laughed. "The tea is safe, you have my word." He lifted his own mug and drank: "See?"

Teal'c nodded and accepted the drink. It was thin, and tasted of very little other than hot water suffused with a hint of plant juices and woody extracts.

Dicenos reassumed his seat on the mat opposite Teal'c, lowering himself on to the floor with difficulty. "Yesterday Idris came to me and reported that a party had been seen among the Stones- four warriors and a Jaffa. You tell me that Ra no longer rules on Earth, Teal'c. Perhaps this is so. But when you stand before me, it is difficult for me to accept that there are no Goa'uld on Earth."

Teal'c felt the larva which nestled in the pouch below his stomach squirm, as if in response to the accusation. The sensation was not pleasant, but it was one to which he had long since become accustomed. He ignored it and explained: "The Goa'uld Apophis ruled my world. He was my...master."

The word felt ugly on his lips, and Teal'c realised that it had been a long time since he had described himself using that term. Slave, under the mastery of another. Movable property. Chattel. There had been a time, in a youth now long since passed away, when he had felt fierce pride that he held a place in the household of the god Apophis. Then he had begun to rise through its ranks, and as he had seen more and more of the true nature of the god he served, the pride had dissipated, replaced by shame, then later loathing.

"And you serve him still?"

"No. I am no longer a slave. I have pledged allegiance to the Tau'ri." The larva would not settle and its mindless thrashings within him were beginning to cause Teal'c pain. Dicenos' wilful lack of understanding was not helping his swiftly fraying patience.

"Then you are a slave to the humans, the Tau'ri, if you now serve them."

"I have sworn an oath of loyalty," said Teal'c through gritted teeth. "It is not the same."

"And if they say, go there, you go?" asked Dicenos. "You must excuse the feebleness of an old man, but that has the ring of slavery to these ears."

"I choose... to offer service." He had to force the words out: the stabbing pain in his gut was like a rod of fire inside him. Dicenos appeared oblivious to his discomfort.

"You are a slave to the Tau'ri," said Dicenos, "just as you are a slave to the thing that grows within you. Your mind must follow their orders, your body must meet its needs."

"That... is... a lie."

"No!" exclaimed the old man forcefully, hopping to his feet: "You lie, Teal'c! You tell me you do not serve the Goa'uld when you let one grow within you. You tell me you are not a slave when you follow where others lead. I wish to hear the truth."

"I have given you the truth," he cried, and gasped as the muscles in his abdomen went into spasm. Through eyes streaming with the pain, he looked up and saw Dicenos standing above him, motioning to Idris and the other Keltoi warrior to take hold of him. They lifted him, and he was pulled to his feet, doubled over so that his eyes were now level with those of Dicenos. The old man was looking at him with a hard-edged gaze.

The drink, thought Teal'c.

Dicenos apparently guessed his thoughts, because he lifted the empty cups and held them up for Teal'c to inspect. "The tea is made from a plant we call the snakesbane," he said: "The learning of our fathers tells us that the bane is a poison to the demons and their children. And a poison to those who carry the demons within also."

"We have done... nothing to harm you. Why do you wish me harm?"

"I do not wish you harm. Far from it. I wish you to be free."

Teal'c looked at him through a haze of agony, not understanding, until with one swift, sudden movement, Dicenos pushed his hand into the slit in his belly and pulled out the symbiont within.

Teal'c gasped.

"This is the mark of your slavery," said the old man. He touched the tattoo on Teal'c forehead with his free hand: "Not this. If I take this serpent and crush it beneath my heel, only then will you be truly free."

"I will die."

"You will die," agreed Dicenos. "But you will die free."

"Yes," said Teal'c. He allowed his head to drop momentarily; the combined effects of the poison and the sudden emptiness within were almost unbearable. He forced himself to crane his neck, to meet Dicenos' gaze. "I am no slave," he said quietly, clearly. The words had to be comprehensible. "I have given my loyalty by choice to those who have earned it. Kill the Goa'uld if you will. I will die free. But I would prefer to live free."

Dicenos looked at him, weighing up the words. Then he leaned in close to Teal'c.

Teal'c shut his eyes, and felt the cool touch of the larva on the flesh of his stomach before it found the entrance to the pouch and pushed its way inside. When he opened his eyes again, the worst of the pain had passed, and Dicenos was smiling.

"Forgive me, brother," he said. "We came here long ago to flee from the slavery imposed by Ra. By the other Goa'uld. I had to be certain you were not sent by him, or any other false god."

"Brother?" repeated Teal'c.

"Brother," confirmed Dicenos. He pulled apart the tunic he wore at his chest, extending the split as far as his navel. The cross-shaped scar of a closed pouch stood out like a brand on his dark, weathered skin. "We are Jaffa also."

**Six**

At the extreme edge of Andy's peripheral vision, something moved.

He looked around quickly, and studied the foliage carefully. Nothing.

Well, it was a rainforest. It was only natural to expect a lot of local wildlife. It was probably just a monkey, or a bird-

There it was again.

Sheldrick cast a glance behind him, where Pinker laboured through the thick undergrowth, followed by Doyle. The Corporal was scanning the forest with an alertness which was mixed with the look of utter absorption he usually reserved for his travel books. SGC Travel, thought Andy, suppressing a smile: Adventure holidays a speciality.

 

Pinker, however, was having serious difficulty: not only was he finding the slow trudge through the dense vegetation hard going, but Andy had noticed that he twitched or stumbled at every unfamiliar bird's call or strange insect's buzz. The man was not cut out for this, and Andy wondered what kind of deal had been struck that had forced the Americans to allow him to come along.

He hoped Pinker didn't turn out to be a liability.

Andy picked up his pace until he had drawn up behind Carter. "Captain," he said quietly.

"Yeah, I know. I've seen it."

Sheldrick nodded, impressed. "What's the response, ma'am?"

She shook her head. "Walk on. If we are being followed, we'll find out soon enough if they're friendly."

Andy nodded again, and flicked off the safety on his weapon. Carter placed her hand on the barrel. "Remember, we're not here to start a conflict, Lieutenant. Do not fire unless I give the order."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Captain," she corrected him, then added, "please."

Andy grinned at her. "Aye aye, Captain."

There was a hiss and a whistle as something sped past Andy's chest. He jumped back in time to see the feathered dart land with a thunk in the trunk of the tree next to him. The sharp point punctured the bulbous red swelling of fungus which grew on the bark, causing it to collapse in on itself, leaking a trail of bright spores on to the wood below.

Pinker drew up short. "What the fuck-?"

"There," said Doyle: "Look."

Andy looked, and saw a slim, dark figure running away from them through the bushes, a mass of white hair flowing out behind it like a bridal train.

Then he was running.

The woman- it had to be a woman, it was too small to be a male- was more than nimble. She jumped over roots and ducked under branches as if she had some kind of internal radar which told her exactly what obstacle was approaching next. For all Andy knew, she did: after all, this wasn't home. The normal rules didn't have to apply here.

She wasn't human.

He was chasing an alien.

Carter and Doyle were ahead of him, Pinker somewhere behind. Sheldrick's advantage was his strength- he had never been a runner, not even when he was Doyle's age. But although the Captain and the Corporal were pacing their quarry, they had the disadvantage of unfamiliarity with the territory, and neither of them was gaining on her.

Dammit, she was going to get away.

The woman had reached a steep, mossy bank. She paused at its base, and cast a quick, frightened look back over her shoulder. Her face was dark-toned, not young, and perfectly human.

A low branch hung several feet above her head. Andy saw her look up at it, then at the barrier in front of her. He could see exactly what she intended, but he was too far off to do anything about it.

She bent her knees, braced herself, and leapt straight up.

She caught the branch with both hands and began to pull herself up, like a gymnast on the parallel bars. It was, thought Sheldrick, a hell of a move for a middle-aged woman to be able to bring off.

And she would have made it, had the branch not chosen that exact moment to snap.

The woman fell to the ground and lay still. Carter got to her first, then Doyle. Andy arrived as the Captain was starting to check her for injuries.

Sheldrick slung down his pack and retrieved his first aid kit. There was a spot of blood on her arm. Carefully, he probed the skin around it. Carter looked at him.

"It's all right, Captain," said Doyle: "Sheldrick's the patrol field medic."

She nodded, and sat back, giving him room to work. Andy swiftly checked the woman's limbs, her skull, her neck. He pushed one eye open and was reassured when the pupil contracted almost instantaneously in the sunlight. He breathed out in relief. "She's not hurt at all," he reported: "She just took the fall badly. She'll be fine in a second."

Pinker had arrived on the scene, and was regarding the fallen woman with undisguised suspicion. "Then give her something to keep her out."

"I don't think that would serve much purpose, Mr Pinker," said Carter.

"She might attack us again."

Andy looked at him. "Yeah, right. Three trained soldiers and a secret service operative against somebody's Mum. My God, would we even stand a chance?"

"She's waking up."

The woman groaned and blinked. She sat bolt upright, and tried to back away from the four faces which surrounded her.

Carter put her weapon down behind herself, and reached out a hand. She smiled. "It's all right. We're not going to hurt you. We don't mean you any harm."

"What about the harm she might mean us?"

"Shut up, Pinker."

The woman looked at them. "Who..." she began: "Who are you?"

"I'm Carter. This is Sheldrick, Doyle and Pinker. What's your name?"

"I am Cerian."

Carter smiled again. "Hi, Cerian."

"Ask her why she attacked us. Go on, ask her that."

Andy scowled. "Pinker, if you don't shut the fuck up right now I swear I will-"

"Lieutenant," said Carter sharply. Andy looked at Pinker, and bit his tongue.

Cerian was staring at Carter. Curiously, she reached out a hand and touched the Captain's pale skin. Then she turned her gaze on the three men. When she looked at Andy, she paused. "Could you...?" she asked, and mimed lifting something off her head.

Andy reached up and took off his beret, revealing his close-cropped dark brown hair. Cerian stared at him, a smile of curious wonder spreading across her face.

"You are not from the village," she said. "You are not Keltoi. Where are you from?"

"Well," said Doyle: "Personally, I'm from Basingstoke."

* * *

It was Daron who brought Teal'c back to the small hut at the edge of the settlement, her tiny frame rigid with the effort of keeping him on his feet. She was barely through the door before O'Neill and Caliburn had risen to relieve her of her burden.

Jack grunted at the sudden transferral of weight on to himself, and allowed Teal'c to sink to the floor as gently as was possible. The change in his appearance was drastic: he was shaking, and the pupils of his dark eyes were fully dilated. Jack looked to Daron, seeking some kind of explanation.

There was none forthcoming. "Dicenos, our council leader, says that you are welcome here," she said. "You are our guests. You may come and go as you wish."

Jack looked at Teal'c, then at Daron. "If this is your idea of making friends, I'd hate to get on your collective bad side."

"He will recover quickly." Daron knelt beside Teal'c and pulled open his unbuttoned undershirt, revealing the slits of the pouch in his stomach. Then she lifted the Jaffa's hand and held it against the fissures in the skin. "Press hard. It will ease the pain. There."

She removed her hand from over his and smiled encouragement; the response was a weak nod of gratitude. Satisfied that Teal'c was not seriously hurt, Jack looked away, and found Caliburn and Hart staring at the Jaffa with twin expressions of disquiet- for once, the Major appeared even more unnerved than the Sergeant. Just as well, thought O'Neill, that Junior hadn't decided to poke its nasty little head out, or Daron might have needed her smelling salts too.

Daron rose and crossed to where Daniel now sat up against the wall. She placed her hands over his face, gently probing the raw skin.

"Ahh, umm, hello? What are you doing? What's she doing, Jack?"

O'Neill opened his mouth to reassure Daniel, but Hart beat him to it. "It's all right, Doctor Jackson. If you could see her, you wouldn't mind her getting so close."

Daron looked over her shoulder at the Sergeant, a smile which was half-flattered and half-embarrassed spreading over her face. With her dark complexion it was difficult to tell, but Jack could have sworn she was blushing all the way to the white roots of her hair.

Suddenly all business again, she produced a clean strip of cloth from a pocket in her tunic and began to wrap it around Daniel's eyes, securing it at the back of his head. "You must see no light at all now. It is important for the healing."

A quick inspection of Hart's hand and the rashes which Caliburn and O'Neill had suffered followed, and then she was gone again. This time the door remained ajar behind her, and Jack could see no guards in the immediate vicinity, although more than a few interested villagers were lurking in the neighbourhood.

"It would appear that they don't receive many visitors," observed Caliburn.

Jack nodded. "Teal'c, are you okay? I thought this guy Dicenos just wanted to talk to you."

"He wished to be sure that we had not been sent by the Goa'uld. We had..." he paused: "A productive dialogue."

Jack took in Teal'c's shattered appearance and noted that particular euphemism for future use. "Did this productive dialogue include the location of the nearest working Stargate?"

"I do not believe there is a Stargate here."

Hart looked at O'Neill accusingly. "You said there would be. You said there had to be."

"Just because these people don't know where it is, doesn't mean there isn't one," said Jack.

Teal'c shook his head weakly. "No. They chose this world for its isolation."

Daniel pulled himself over to join them. Jack grabbed the water pitcher out of his path before he could upset it. "What do you mean, Teal'c?"

"They call themselves the Keltoi. They are the last of Ra's Jaffa, from your world. From Earth."

"What?"

"Their forefathers were among a group of Jaffa who rebelled against Ra, in the last days of his rule. Many were killed; some escaped. The survivors fled. The journey took many years. But they took with them some understanding of the workings of the Gates. At last they came to a place which was suitable, and they built the Stones and came to this world."

"They built their own Gate? How?"

"Dicenos says that there are places where the nature of what is real is different from elsewhere."

"Different how?"

"Weaker. There are places where crossings may be made, as with the forging of a river. The Stones on your world mark one such place. The Stones here another. Dicenos claims that the ancestors of the Keltoi did not build a Gate; they merely divined one which was already there."

"You talked to him, Teal'c. Do you believe him?"

"The story has to believable," said Daniel. "It's true."

Jack looked at him. "How do you figure that?"

"I should have worked it out earlier, but it's not my area of expertise... Keltoi is the word the Greeks used to refer to the Celts. We don't know much about them- they didn't leave any writings, so all that remains is what other nations wrote about them, and most of that's propaganda. But elements of Keltoi society seem to fit in with Celtic culture, or parts of it. They're quite Druidic, actually."

Jack frowned. "You mean white gowns and Stonehenge at the Solstice type thing?"

"Ummm. Well, no. I was thinking more of the general attitude of equal respect for women as evidenced by a female healer and the proto-democratic structure which having a council leader suggests. But I'm sure they'd do the white gown thing too, if you asked nicely."

"Hold on," said Caliburn, "I was under the impression that the Celts lived in North West Europe. Ireland, Brittany, Wales for that matter. These people claim that their ancestors escaped from slavery to an Egyptian god?"

Daniel shrugged. "The Celts were a lot more widespread than a lot of people know. There's evidence that a group of Celtic warriors were recruited by Ptolemy the second, in Egypt as mercenaries. We also know that sometime after that, Celtic tribes were migrating north through Europe. Jaffa live a lot longer than the norm. This group of rebels must have evaded capture for long enough to get to what is now southern England...and then they came here, where Ra couldn't follow without mounting a major operation using ships. And their descendants have been here ever since."

Jack shook his head, then remembered that Daniel couldn't see the action. "Wait, that doesn't make sense. Suppose a group of Jaffa did end up here, after running away for years. There would have been no more larvae to replace the ones they carried as they matured. So they should all either have been taken over by the mature Goa'uld, or they should have died before they had a chance to establish themselves. So why are their great-great-grandkids here?"

"What do you mean, should have died?" queried Caliburn.

"The larva supplants the host's immune system with its own, which is superior." Daniel was addressing himself to the air, in the vague direction of Caliburn's voice. "But the host is then dependent on the symbiont. Jaffa need a new larva every time the one they carry matures."

"We are born with the pouch," explained Teal'c. "Without a Goa'uld, we live and die as others do. But once we are with Goa'uld, we must always be with Goa'uld." He shut his eyes for a moment, and Jack realised that he must be exhausted. Teal'c and Daniel needed to rest: they could talk about this later. He opened his mouth to say as much, then stopped at what Teal'c said next.

"It is not so for the Keltoi. Dicenos has told me that their ancestors removed the larvae, and did not die. He has offered to share the knowledge with us. With me." He opened his eyes. "He has offered to free me."

* * *

"Personally, I'm from Basingstoke. Oh, well done, Doyle. Very bloody well done."

Doyle grimaced as he walked behind Sheldrick in the short column which was now headed by Cerian, followed closely by Carter. Pinker, silent and morose, drew up the rear. "I couldn't help it," said the Corporal. "It just sort of popped out."

"I mean, there we are, talking to an alien, a bloody alien, and it's our big chance to say something really memorable, something up there with One small step for man, one giant leap, and you go and ruin the moment with bloody Basingstoke."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with Basingstoke. My mother still lives in Basingstoke."

"Worse luck for Basingstoke," muttered Sheldrick, and walked on.

Ahead of them, Carter saw Cerian look behind her at the two men and frown nervously. "It's all right," she reassured the white-haired woman: "I think they always carry on like that."

"Forgive me. You are very... strange... to me."

"Is that why you fired the dart at us?"

Anger flashed in the woman's eyes. "I meant to help you, and you pursued me."

Carter thought quickly. Somehow she had failed to understand the situation, and she sensed she was dangerously close to alienating a potential ally and guide. "Cerian, we're strangers here," she said, tone as conciliatory as she could make it. "We thought we were being attacked."

The native shook her head. "The dart was not for you, it was for the fever-tree."

"Fever-tree?"

Cerian pointed at a tall, slim-trunked tree growing by the side of the trail they were now following. A rash of red globes bulged out from the knots in its bark. "We call them fever-trees because of the fungus which grows on them. The bulbs are delicate- the slightest touch will cause them to burst when they are ripe. Those who breathe the dust die quickly."

Slowly, Sam nodded, recalling how the dart which had she had assumed had been aimed at Sheldrick had hit one such deadly growth. Cerian had quite possibly saved either herself or the Lieutenant from a painful death. And instead of thanking the woman, they had turned on her. No wonder she was mistrustful.

"Cerian, I didn't realise."

The native stared at her. "How could you not? Even little children know of the fever-trees."

"We're travellers," explained Sam. "We're not familiar with the forest."

"How can you not know the forest?"

"We come from a place beyond the forest."

"A place beyond the...?" began Cerian. She stopped. "Did you come here by the Stones?"

Sam said nothing for a moment, before deciding that honesty was probably the best policy. "Yes."

Cerian looked at her, an expression of surprise mingled with wonder forming on her face. "Dicenos said you would come. I should not have doubted him."

Carter paused, not sure what to make of that. "Well, it's nice to be expected," she said at last. "I don't suppose he said anything about the others as well?"

"Others like you?"

Sam nodded. "We came looking for some friends of ours. A group of five men. Have you seen them?"

Cerian shook her head. "No. But someone in the village may have. I have been away these last five days." She reached down to a collection of pouches which were strung along the green woven sash which hung over her tunic, and held one up for Carter to see: "I am a healer. I often make journeys into the forest to collect herbs."

"How far away is your village?"

"Not far. Less than a half-day."

"And you'll take us there?"

"I must," said Cerian.

Carter didn't understand. "Is that... a rule your people have?"

"No. But you do not know the forest, so I cannot leave you here." Cerian walked on ahead of Carter, easily ducking the sharp thorns of an overhanging creeper. "If I did, you would surely be dead before sunset."

**Seven**

The Keltoi village was barricaded on three sides by high, wooden walls, but such fabricated protection was unnecessary on its fourth outlook, where it was protected by the river into which the tiny tributary Teal'c had found ultimately fed. The river was a monstrous, brown-green channel which wound its way sluggishly through the heart of the rainforest, its heavy, silt-laden waters lapping gently at the wide strip of sandy soil which traced its course.

Jack picked his way through the oozing mud- noting ruefully that he would need a new pair of dress shoes when they got back- until he was standing next to Teal'c. The Jaffa had installed himself on a wide, flat rock and was sitting cross-legged, forearms resting lightly on his knees.

"If this is one of those meditation moments, I can come back," said Jack.

Teal'c looked up at him. "I am no longer meditating. Now I am thinking."

Pretty subtle distinction, thought Jack, but he nodded and sat down on the next nearest slab of stone. "So what's the deal?"

"Dicenos tells me that the medicine woman here, Cerian, has the knowledge to remove the larva I carry without killing me."

O'Neill shook his head. "We tried that at home, and it didn't work. What's so different about doing it here?"

"When I spoke to Dicenos, he told me the story of the first settlers here. The fugitives, Ra's Jaffa. Soon after they arrived, many, and then all, became ill. Their bodies began to reject the larvae within them. Then the Goa'uld they carried died, one by one."

"And they didn't?" Teal'c shook his head. "Why not?"

"It was because of a herb. A new element in their diet here, one not present on your world. They use it as a preservative. It is in much of their food. They call it snakesbane."

Jack thought about that. "And this, ahhh, snakestuff, if you took enough of it, it would make your body reject the symbiont? But boost your immune system so you'd be okay?"

"Dicenos believes so."

"Believes so," repeated Jack. "In other words, this all happened maybe twenty generations ago, and all there is to say it'll work on you is folklore." The evening was drawing in, and O'Neill could see the top of the larger moon beginning to peek above the treeline on the far side of the river. "Teal'c, we nearly lost you on the table when we tried this before. And now you want to try it again in the middle of the forest, with the nearest well-equipped emergency room a thousand light years away. What happens if something goes wrong?"

"I accept that risk."

"Dammit, I don't!" The second moon was rising now as well, joining its brighter sister in the unfamiliar heavens. "Why do you want this, Teal'c?" Jack stopped, then, without waiting for a reply, answered himself: "All right. Dumb question. If I had one of those things in my gut I'd want it out too. But..." he looked at the Jaffa, trying to read his expression. "You told me once that this is normal for you. I thought you were used to it. So why the sudden change of mind?"

"Because the Keltoi are free, and I am not."

"But you don't serve Apophis any more."

"I do not. But my body serves the needs of the Goa'uld." Teal'c stopped, and Jack waited, sensing that he had not finished. O'Neill had learnt very early on in his friendship with the Jaffa that Teal'c did not believe in talking unless he had something to say. Probably just as well, thought Jack wryly, since he could easily talk enough for both of them. Jack waited now, confident that anything which prompted Teal'c to put more than three sentences in a row was worth hearing. "I am no longer a slave of Apophis, and for that I am thankful. But the people I left behind are still his slaves. My son and my wife are still his slaves. And my people and their children will remain slaves always, unless they are shown an escape such as the Keltoi found."

"So you want to prove it's possible and then go back?"

There was no reply. Maybe, thought Jack, using so many words all at once had exhausted the ready supply.

"Hell of a risk to take to prove a point, Teal'c."

"Some points are worth it."

Both moons had risen now, and together they cast a haunting, blue-tinged glow over the sleeping forest beyond the river. Hadn't Chu'lac had two moons? Jack wasn't sure, but he remembered there had been more than one satellite in the night skies of Teal'c's home. O'Neill looked up at the foreign constellations beginning to wink into existence above his head, and tried for a moment to imagine that Earth's single moon was a stranger to him, that the constellations, bright Sirius, the friendly yellow glow of Venus and the red eye of Mars were similarly alien. What must it be like to live in exile, separated from family, friends and the culture of home, among strangers who mean well but who will never wholly understand?

It would be easy to say no. To exercise his rank and forbid this. Easy, justifiable, and wrong.

"Yes," he said softly, "I guess they are."

"O'Neill! Teal'c!"

"Daron?" Jack turned on the rock, and saw the Keltoi woman skipping over the stones of the shale beach, her face alight. "What's up?"

Daron skidded to a halt. "Cerian has returned. And she has brought others like you with her." And without waiting for a reply, she turned and ran up the shore.

"Others like...?" Jack grinned widely and punched the air. "Way to go, Carter!"

* * *

 

A crowd of Keltoi had gathered by the village's main gates, and there was a hum of animated conversation in the air. Probably, thought Jack, nothing this interesting had happened since great great Grandpa and Grandma Keltoi had decided they were fed up with obeying Ra's every whim. He hung back, standing at the outskirts of the crowd, from which position he could see the back of Carter's head bobbing up and down as she waved her arms expressively. Caliburn drew up beside him.

"...people like us?" the Captain was saying. "Maybe they came this way? There are five men, four light like us, one dark like you."

The Major looked at O'Neill. "Perhaps you should..."

Jack shook his head. "Oooh no. Not yet."

"And their hair is like ours-" She tugged at her own blond locks for emphasis.

O'Neill looked at Caliburn, and saw that he was smiling. "Colonel, have mercy."

Jack grinned back, and slouched forward through the throng, hands in pockets. "I'm not hearing the word 'handsome' in that description, Captain."

She turned, and grinned delightedly. "Colonel!"

Jack looked around the assembled villagers: "It's okay, folks, they're with us." To Carter, he said, "Glad you could join us, Captain."

"So am I, sir." Behind her, Sheldrick and Doyle gave snappy salutes in the direction of the Major, while Pinker- now what the hell was he doing here?- cast mistrustful glances around the crowd of natives, as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

While the Major and his men indulged in a little catch-up, Jack rescued Carter from the small but insistent group of Keltoi women who found her pale skin and golden hair absolutely fascinating. He led her back through the village towards their temporary home, listening carefully as she outlined the machinations she had undertaken in order to follow them. When she had brought him up to date, he did some explaining of his own.

"Jaffa?" she asked when he had finished.

"So it would seem."

A small child toddled out from a nearby dwelling and fell directly across the path. Carter bent down and picked him up, brushing the dust from the boy's skin and murmuring reassuring words before he could begin to cry. The X-shaped scar on his stomach was small but clearly visible.

"So they're human," she said, kneeling in front of the child. "Or were."

The boy smiled shyly at her, and reached out one chubby, dark hand to touch her pale skin.

"Yes," said Jack: "But don't ask me why they all look like they've been hitting the peroxide bottle a little too hard."

Carter stroked the toddler's fuzzy white curls. "This seems to be a small population, and they've been isolated for a long time. It's surprising which genes become dominant." Bored now, the boy turned and ran off towards a nearby dwelling where a Keltoi woman sat spinning yarn. After a moment, Carter walked on after O'Neill.

"They weren't sure about us at first," said Jack as they arrived at the hut at the far side of the settlement, "but Teal'c won them over with his natural charm and easy manner." He pushed open the door of the dwelling, and allowed the Captain to enter ahead of him. "Danny, I should warn you, has had... a little accident."

"Oh my God," said Carter: "Daniel?"

"Sam?"

O'Neill rolled his eyes at the Captain. "No, Danny, it's just me doing my Carter impression. It's getting better, don't y'think?"

Carter knelt beside Daniel and pressed her hands against his bandaged eyes experimentally.

"Ouch."

"Sorry. How'd you do this?"

"He got a little pollen in his face. He'll be fine," O'Neill told her. In response, Carter looked up at him, and pointed silently at the raw, red skin peeping out from beneath the layers of dressings. Jack shook his head at her, and mouthed the word no emphatically. Panicking wasn't going to benefit anyone, least of all Daniel.

Carter nodded, accepting his judgement of how to play the situation. "Doesn't look too bad," she said carefully. "Should be okay if you keep the bandages on it."

"So," said Jack, "not that I'm not having the time of my life here or anything, but it doesn't appear that there's a Stargate anywhere convenient, so can I take it that we're going to be able to go home the same way you arrived?"

Carter nodded. "In twenty nine hours."

"Why do I get the feeling that's not a randomly selected figure?"

The Captain stood up. "There is a wormhole here- or a potential wormhole, at least- but it's a natural phenomenon. It seems to be linked to the one at the Stones in Cornwall. It's not powered, so we can't control it or open it from this end. To get here, we punched the weakness open using our Gate; in twenty nine hours, SGC will do it again. They're expecting us to return then."

"Wait, they're dialling us?" said Daniel from the floor. "That doesn't work. We won't be able to go through from this side."

"We're not dealing with a Gate, remember. The circles of Stones here and on Earth are just markers: it's the locations they mark which are special."

"Special?" repeated Jack doubtfully.

She nodded. "Think of them as... little sections of tissue paper in a steel-plated reality."

"You have a poet's soul, Captain."

She ignored him and continued: "The Gates are artificial: they deconstruct matter and project the energy stream across space. What the Stones mark is slightly different. It's more like a perforation in the space-time continuum, a place where, under the right circumstances, two distinct sets of co-ordinates can simultaneously co-exist."

Jack frowned. "I'll take your word for it."

"Essentially, sir, if the theory is right- and we've already pretty much proved that it is by getting here- then when SGC dials us up the day after tomorrow, the resulting wormhole will allow us passage back home."

"For one time only." He grinned at her. "Good work, Captain."

Carter shrugged. "Well, I only discovered the phenomenon, it was already there..."

"Captain, that was a compliment. Take it and run."

"Yes, sir."

Daniel raised his hands to the sides of his head and rubbed at his temples, fighting down a yawn with only marginal success. Jack suspected that the tiredness was a side effect of the various pain-killing potions Daron was making him take. "So what are we going to do for the next twenty nine hours?"

Jack leaned down and, resting a hand on the younger man's shoulder, guided him down and into the nest of blankets by the fire. "You are going to rest up and keep well away from the native flora. The rest of us are going to hang out, enjoy the local hospitality, and help Teal'c through some minor surgery."

"Sir?" said Carter.

Jack went to the hut's door. "Come on. I'll introduce you to Dicenos."

**Eight**

"Wake up, Daniel Jackson."

The voice cut into Daniel's dreams, and he woke into a brief but intense state of confusion, when he tried to open his eyes and couldn't. He panicked for a moment, before remembering that the bandages around his face not only blocked out all available light but also forced his eyelids closed. He sat up and held still while gentle hands unwrapped the strips of cloth from around his head. The material caught and stuck where the blistered, weeping skin around his eyes and nose was starting to heal, and the peeling sensation was painful. "Another change?" he asked petulantly. "Already?"

"You must be presentable for the celebration." Daron's voice was soothing and patient. He recognised her voice now, and it would not be long before he would be able to recognise her touch as well. It was a strange kind of intimacy to share with someone whose face he had never seen.

"What celebration?"

Daniel was not sure, but he thought he could hear a smile behind Daron's words. "We are celebrating having new friends. And we are celebrating that Teal'c will soon be free, like us."

"He's going through with it?"

"Cerian is the most gifted healer we have had in three generations. Teal'c is strong. All will be well." Daron's tone was one of firm conviction. "Come. They are making ready to eat. I will take you to the meeting hall."

Daniel got to his feet- he was feeling stronger now, and that part was easy- but had to wait for Daron's guiding hand on his arm before he could make progress to the door and beyond. As he stepped outside, he felt a slight change in the air, from the stuffy interior of the hut to the warm but cleaner night air. An instinctive reaction, a yawning sensation of panic in the pit of his stomach, gripped him: inside was a known environment, but outside, in the unfamiliar territory of the village, he was conscious of his complete dependence on Daron for guidance. If he was separated from her, or got lost, or wandered into the forest by mistake...

He took a deep breath and tried to quell the mounting fear with rational thought. He was temporarily- temporarily, he stressed to himself- without sight, and in a strange place to boot. These feelings of vulnerability were natural, but without foundation. The Keltoi were friendly, Carter had found them, and they would all be going home soon. There was nothing to worry about.

Somewhere a forest creature hooted loudly. Despite himself, Daniel gripped Daron's hand a little more forcefully. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

"Daniel Jackson, may I ask you a question?"

"Umm, just Daniel is fine. And, ummm, yes, sure."

"I wish to know..." She hesitated. "It is difficult to say. There are many people. I do not wish others to overhear."

"Well, I, ahh..." Daniel thought. "Whisper it to me."

"Very well." There was the briefest of hesitations, then he felt Daron's warm, sweet-scented skin touch his bare cheek as she leaned closer to him. Very quietly, she breathed: "Does he have a woman? Hart?"

Her self-consciousness and embarrassment were palpable in her voice and Daniel nearly chuckled. Then he caught himself. He'd been here himself, after all. "Daron, I only met him a couple of days ago. I don't know." Impishly, he added: "You'll have to ask him."

She stopped moving, and as Daniel jolted to a halt beside her, he wondered if he had accidentally broken some fundamental tribal taboo concerning male-female courtship. Then he smelt the warm, welcoming aroma of meat roasting over an open fire, and realised they had arrived at their destination. Daron's romantic concerns had distracted him from the anxiety of the journey.

He wondered if that had been deliberate. If it had been, Daron was going to make one hell of a medicine woman when Cerian decided to retire.

She told him to duck as they passed through the low entrance, and he did as she said.

* * *

 

"These guys really know how to throw a barbecue."

Rhys watched as O'Neill carved a generous portion of meat off the charred flank of a wholly unidentifiable animal and dipped it into one of the many bowls of seasoned sauces and dressings which had been provided. He was slightly less convinced of the merits of tribal cuisine than the American colonel appeared to be, but he suspected that it would be excessively bad form not to demonstrate a hearty appreciation for the hospitality being offered, and so when the knife was passed in his direction, he sliced the blackened flesh with determined enthusiasm. Handing the blade on to Carter, he took an experimental bite of the deep red, succulent meat. He chewed and swallowed it cautiously, then took another, larger bite. It wasn't bad at all.

"What d'you reckon?" asked O'Neill.

Caliburn nodded. "Good. Tastes a little like chicken."

"Hear that, Danny? That's your cue to make with the clucking noises."

Dr Jackson was sitting cross legged on the other side of the long, low table on which the multitude of foods and jugs had been arranged, while Captain Carter cut a serving of meat for him in a maternal manner which Rhys imagined the archaeologist would have found embarrassing had he been able to see it. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

"Sure it worked. Next time I talked to the kids I had to endure a half hour's worth of barnyard impersonations." He dipped a sliver of meat into a bowl of noxious-appearing green goo and munched on it appreciatively. "Hey, try this one. It tastes like salsa."

Rhys ate, and allowed the conversation to flow around him. His patrol, and O'Neill's people and Pinker, had been seated at the top of one of the two long tables which ran parallel along the length of the meeting hall, in what Rhys took to be a position of honour. The hall was by far the largest structure in the village, but was still crowded tonight, as every member of the community sat or stood or leaned in a convenient- and frequently inconvenient- position for eating. Looking around, Caliburn estimated that there might easily be five hundred people present. It was certainly impressive. And yet... the rest of the village was deserted. Everyone was here. And a settlement of five hundred people after a millennium's opportunity for growth was hardly a success story. Rhys looked down at the fading red rash on his arms and hands, and thought of the forest, dense and dark and poisonous, beyond the perimeter fences. This world was not the friendly, gentle cradle which his home was. These people had done remarkably well to survive here, but they would never prosper.

Although Hart and Daron might prosper, given half a chance.

Caliburn looked down the length of the table, to where the Keltoi woman was reaching out a hand, tentatively, towards his Sergeant's layer of close-cropped red curls. "But does it hurt?" he heard her say, and saw Hart shake his head and laugh. Fraternising with the natives was probably not the most sensible course of action, but Rhys was glad to see the Sergeant seeming more relaxed than at any time since they had come here, and he decided to follow the polite tack and ignore the developing relationship. They would leaving before long anyway, and it was unlikely that Daron would be coming with them.

"My friends." At the head of the table, Dicenos got to his feet, leaning heavily on a stout wooden staff to do so. He raised the stick and rapped it on the low table three times, reducing the hum of chatter to a respectful silence within moments. "My old friends," he said, gazing around the assembled village, "...and my new friends," he added, indicating the visitors. Rhys felt five hundred separate gazes converge upon himself and the group around him, and smiled politely. "We are gathered to celebrate a momentous day in our history. Today we have received visitors from the land we left so long ago. We welcome them."

O'Neill waved to the room at large. "Hi. Nice to meet you folks."

Caliburn tried not to wince. Oh God. Americans.

"And they bring us good news. The demon Goa'uld from which we fled are gone from Earth."

There was a smattering of low cheers and sounds of approval. Dicenos held up a hand for silence. "There is a final cause for joy this night." He paused, and when he next spoke, his tone had shifted subtly, taking on a rhythmic, mellifluous quality. Rhys suddenly had the impression that the words he was hearing had been spoken many times before, that this was Keltoi oral history being reinforced and passed on.

"When the fathers of our people came here, they found that the ways of the forest are harsh."

A ripple of nodded agreement passed around the hall.

"But they also found that the forest is bountiful. That it can provide for our needs. And the forest met the needs of our fathers and mothers, by bringing forth the snakesbane; the snakesbane which freed them from the slavery to the demon children of Ra which they carried within them."

More nods, and when Rhys looked into the gloom past the end of the table, he saw a Keltoi woman lifting her young daughter on to her knee and whispering to her words which were surely an injunction to heed and remember. The more Rhys learned of these people the more their fortitude and their sense of identity impressed him. They had no paper, no books and yet they had found a way to preserve their history and origins accurately. How many leaders before Dicenos had stood in this spot and told this story, without variation? How many children had listened to it, and then grown up to tell it to their own children?

"And so we are free of the demon children of the snake Ra. Today, my friends, we have been given the chance to share our freedom with another who is enslaved now as we once were."

Rhys looked to where Teal'c sat, silent and focused, at the Keltoi leader's side. Dicenos lowered a hand and touched his shoulder, and he rose, dwarfing the frail white-haired man as he stood.

"Teal'c," said Dicenos: "Gladly we share with you our freedom. Cerian, let us begin."

The Keltoi woman, wearing the woven sash of dried vines which Rhys now understood was the mark of the position of village healer, got up and crossed the hall, carrying with her a cup which steamed in the dim orange-red glow of the fire.

Dicenos took the cup from her, and handed it to Teal'c. "Drink, and you will soon be free."

Teal'c accepted the cup and held it, eyes shut. The perfect, deep silence of anticipation had fallen throughout the hall; all eyes, all thoughts were directed at the central pageant.

Rhys glanced away, and looked across the table, to where the Colonel sat. He too was focused entirely on the ritual about to begin, but unlike the Keltoi, his face was marked with something other than delighted expectation. There was a tension in his expression, and the flickering firelight highlighted the taut muscles in the side of his neck.

Teal'c lifted the cup to his mouth, and drained it. The Keltoi erupted into a roar of approval, mingled with claps and shouts. Cerian led the Jaffa out of the hall through an ovation of ecstatic approval.

* * *

It was a balmy night, and now that the meal was over, most of the villagers and their guests had chosen to move out into the warm outside air. As Rhys strolled through the settlement, he could hear the murmur of low conversations and the ringing of distant laughter. A succession of loud splashing noises, followed swiftly by high pitched childish squeals, came from the direction of the river where the Keltoi children were making the most of an extended evening's play.

He found O'Neill sitting by the oak tree at the centre of the village, looking up at the moons. The Colonel lowered his gaze as Rhys approached.

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

Caliburn sat down beside him. "You don't have your starmap this time."

"No," agreed O'Neill. "Not that it would be much use here." He stifled a yawn, and Rhys was about to suggest that he get some rest when he realised that O'Neill had not been studying the night sky at all: this spot, beneath the ancient oak, afforded a perfect view of the isolated hut to which Cerian had taken Teal'c. The door of the little dwelling was closed tightly, and shutters were pulled over the windows. The outline of the building was hazy in the darkness, and it took Rhys a moment to understand why. Then he saw that tendrils of smoke were rising from between the gaps in the hut's woven structure, and that in the stillness a pall of herby fumes hung around its walls and roof.

"What is that?"

"Carter says the smoke will reduce the risk of infection," said O'Neill: "If it doesn't give him lung cancer first." He yawned again.

"You know," said Rhys carefully, "you're not helping him sitting out here."

"No. But he'd do the same for me." O'Neill shifted his position against the tree trunk. "Teal'c is an exile because he chose to help us. Where he comes from, he's persona non grata. I feel..." he hesitated: "...maybe a little more responsible than I should."

Rhys nodded, understanding. "Were you in the Gulf?" he asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Al Basra."

O'Neill winced sympathetically. "I heard it got ugly there."

"It did. It was my first command- well, I say command, I had two men to lead on a basic ground recon. Everything was going A-1, and then we ran into sniper fire. Suddenly one of my people was lying on the ground bleeding into the sand and all I could think was I would have taken it for him if I could. But you can't."

"No," agreed O'Neill. "You can't." He looked at Rhys. "What happened to him?"

"Doyle was just fine." Caliburn leaned back against the gnarled bark, listening to the settlement's friendly voices, the adults' talk and the children's play. If he shut his eyes, ignored the strange sky above, he could almost believe himself back in his parents' village. Apart from the heat. "All those different worlds you visit," he said to O'Neill: "Ever tempted to stay on any of them?"

The Colonel appeared to consider this, and shrugged. "No. There's a saying that fits: the best part of travelling is coming home. The more places I go the more sense it makes."

"And what if a person has no home to go back to?"

"Then I'd feel sorry for him."

The door of the hut opened, the narrow gap just wide enough for Cerian to poke her head out into the clean air, puffs of dense grey smoke clinging to her rapidly staining white hair. "You may enter now," she called to O'Neill. "But be quick." Then she vanished, and the door shut behind her.

The Colonel stood, dusting loose sand and soil from his clothing. "Guess that means visiting hours start now." He began to make his way across the square to the dwelling.

Rhys watched him go. "O'Neill."

"Yeah?"

"If you want a break at any point, call and I'll fill in."

O'Neill nodded. "I'll do that."

* * *

Inside the hut, the atmosphere was so thick with smoke from the dampened wood fire that Jack began coughing almost as soon as he was inside. Cerian frowned at him, and handed him a wet cloth. "Breathe through this," she instructed.

Unable to reply, he nodded and put the material over his nose and mouth, hacking into it like a man in the terminal stages of emphysema. For this I quit smoking?

 

Cerian was wringing out another cloth, making ready to replace the one lying across Teal'c's forehead. His eyes were closed and his face was contorted in pain. Jack could not tell whether he was conscious or not.

Jack knelt by the Jaffa, taking careful, shallow breaths through the mask until he felt able to frame a sentence. His eyes were watering and he had to blink back stinging tears caused by the clouds of particulate matter in the air. "How is he?"

"The snakesbane is killing the demon within him. It is painful for him also."

She lifted the cup which was sitting next to Teal'c's head and set it to one side. Jack saw that it was still half-filled with the snakesbane tincture. He looked at the healer doubtfully. "Maybe you should give him some more. Get it over with quicker."

Cerian shook her head. "Too much would poison him as well as the demon's child." She pushed up her tunic sleeves. "It is nearly time. I am about to remove the larva."

"And after that it'll get better?"

"No. After that it will get worse. And then it will get better." She assumed a position at Teal'c's side, kneeling over his stomach. "You may hold his shoulders. Prevent him from moving."

Jack did as she instructed, placing his hands on either side of Teal'c's neck and bearing down with as much force as he dared. The Jaffa's skin was coated with a thin layer of grey dust from the fire, new deposits of which were settling as fast as the sweat collecting on him could wash the old dirt away. The muscles in his arms were tight and tense, and his mouth was twisted into an open snarl, revealing teeth clenched together in agony.

"You're okay," Jack reassured him softly. "This'll only hurt for a second, and then everything will be..."

Cerian's hand darted into the slits in Teal'c's stomach, and emerged slick with mucus, and holding a writhing, furious larva. Teal'c screamed.

Jack pressed down on him with all his weight, and even so nearly could not stop him from arching up off the thin mattress of blankets on which he lay.

Cerian deposited the larva in a deep bowl by the fire, and lifted another small cup, which she filled with water from a clay jug. She placed one hand behind Teal'c's head and the used the other to hold the cup to his lips. "Come, now. Drink. It is done."

"I am..." he hissed: "It is not..."

"Hush," said Cerian. "Drink, and rest." She tipped the cup, and although much of the liquid missed his mouth entirely, Jack could see his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down as he instinctively swallowed. After a moment he became a fraction more relaxed, and Jack eased off the pressure he was applying to his shoulders. He sat back, exhausted.

Cerian placed a hand on Teal'c's forehead, and nodded. "He is sleeping. This is the most important time. It is a healing sleep. He must not wake." She got up, and lifted the jug. "I will return. Watch him while I am gone."

The smoke was thickening again, and Jack did not trust himself to speak. He nodded silently.

Cerian went to the door, and began to open it. As she stepped outside, she said: "You did well."

Jack grinned at her, and made the thumbs-up sign. She frowned at him in incomprehension, and left.

"Y'hear that?" he croaked to the sleeping Jaffa: "We did okay."

* * *

Rhys sat under the oak tree and listened to the muffled noises coming from the hut. He was on the point of rapping on the door to find out if they needed help when it opened and Cerian emerged, carrying a small brown-red jug. She crossed the village square without noticing Rhys, and her expression was preoccupied, but she walked purposefully, not anxiously, and he decided that the situation must, for the meantime, be progressing as expected.

He stood up. He could do with a few hours' sleep himself.

Caliburn walked slowly through the now-quietening settlement, thinking how different it was to the small pit village in north Wales in which he had grown up, and how much the same. That had been a close-knit community too, one where surnames were rarely if ever used and everyone knew everyone else's business, for better or worse. And, like this place, his home had been a lingering, stagnant remnant of another time. His village had died a slow death when the coal seams had begun to run out, just as the Keltoi would eventually face extinction when their walls and healing herbs could no longer hold off the forest's poisonous assault.

He hadn't thought about home in a long time. Hadn't been back since his father's funeral. Odd that this place, so remote and so exotic, should remind him so forcefully of it.

He heard a wheezing gasp from the shadows under the eaves of a nearby dwelling, and stopped to peer into the gloom. "Dicenos?"

The old man held up a hand. "I am... just a little tired. Please, a moment."

The answer sounded about as convincing to Rhys as those his father had given when he coughed up blood and bile and coal dust. He moved closer to Dicenos. "With respect, sir, I think you could use some assistance."

Dicenos tried to wave him away, but did not resist when Rhys curled an arm around him and supported part of his weight. He was surprised at how frail the old man was beneath his tunic.

Caliburn manoeuvred him around and helped him down into a sitting position on the ground. As he did so, he found himself looking, for the shortest of moments, straight into Dicenos' eyes. Unlike his body, they were not weak with age, but sparkled and shone with the brightness of an acute intellect. And something else.

Recognition?

Rhys started, and nearly let the old man slip to the ground with a bump.

"Yes," said Dicenos. He smiled and nodded. "You too are one of our brothers."

Rhys looked at the contrast where his own pale, ivory-toned fingers rested on the old man's dark, wrinkled arm. "Of a type, sir," he said, "but not of a kind."

Dicenos shook off Rhys' grip and pressed his hand against his abdomen. "Oh yes," he said quietly. "The Stones told me you would come, and the Stones brought you. Tell me about your home."

"Well, it's..." Rhys stopped. "It's not like here."

Dicenos made a small noise of derision. "If it were, would I be asking? Tell me about the place we left."

And Rhys told him. He told him about the fields and the valleys, places where the dense, suffocating forest was unknown, where the land was open and gentle. He told him about the farms laid out like patchwork around his village, about walking home on cold winter nights and waking up to snow in the morning. He described summers which were warm and long, but without the oppressive humidity of this place. And Dicenos listened, without speaking to interrupt or ask questions. He simply listened.

When Rhys had finished, he said: "I think that it is time for us to find a new home."

There was a splash from the direction of the river. Then a shout. Then a scream.

"What the bloody...?" began Rhys.

Then all hell broke loose.

**Nine**

A loose stone caused Daniel to stagger, and he stumbled against Sam, almost tripping.

"Ooops. Sorry."

"It's all right. Don't worry about it."

Scanning the ground ahead more carefully in the moonlight, Sam took a firmer grip of his hand and led him through the obstacle course which was the route from the meeting hall to the hut on the far side of the village where they were staying. She stifled a giggle, not wholly successfully.

"What's so funny?"

Sam put her free hand to her mouth. She really shouldn't have had that third cup of Keltoi fruits-of-the-forest hooch. "I was thinking... holding hands, walking slowly in the dark. We could keep the SGC rumour machine ticking over for months on this."

"Sam, you could be naked right now and I wouldn't be in any position to appreciate it."

"How d'y'know I'm not?"

He reached over with his free hand and made a fuss of prodding her uniformed arm. "I feel cloth. Yep, that's a jacket."

Now she did laugh out loud. "Okay, all right, I admit it, I'm dressed."

Daniel smiled- at least, she thought he did, it was difficult to tell in the dark and with half his face hidden under bandages- and she was glad that he seemed to be maintaining a positive attitude. Then again, she thought, Daniel was probably the only person who was unaware of the extent and severity of the injuries he had sustained. She would feel better when they got home and found a specialist to check him out.

If it wasn't too late by then to prevent permanent damage to his sight.

"Sam? You've gone quiet."

"Sorry," she replied automatically. "I was just thinking about Teal'c."

"Yeah. I know. Me too. But Cerian knows what she's doing, and this is what he wants. Besides," he added, "if this plant contains a drug strong enough to bring his immune system back up to normal levels, think what medical science at home could do with it. If we brought nothing else home, that would justify everything we do."

Sam said nothing, but looked up at the twin moons and made a silent wish on the shining crescents that the treatments Daron had given Daniel were as effective as he believed the snakesbane might be.

She blinked. A bright light appeared then vanished between the moons, above the treeline on the far side of the river. Sam stopped in her tracks.

Daniel walked on a pace, and stumbled. "What is it?"

"I don't know. There's a light out in the forest. It looks like it's moving towards us. It's..." Her heart stopped, then quickened, and she felt a rush of adrenaline stimulated by fear hit her bloodstream. Suddenly she was stone cold sober again. "Oh my God, Daniel, it's a Glider. There are Goa'uld here!"

"But that's not..."

"Get down!"

The Glider skimmed the tree canopy, then swooped in low over the village, approaching the settlement from the side which backed on to the river, strafing as it came. The first blasts fell harmlessly on the wide, empty banks. The next rounds landed closer to the buildings at the water's edge.

Carter dived for the nearest available cover, dragging Daniel behind her. As the pulses from the craft's energy weapons hit the settlement's buildings and structures, the night sky above her glowed like a Fourth of July fireworks display. A chorus of screams began to break the peaceful silence into which the village had settled; Sam could tell that they were shouts of surprise, of panic- screams of pain were different, higher pitched and longer. There were none of those. Yet.

She began to edge forwards, crawling on her belly along the ground.

"Sam?" There was an edge of raw panic in Daniel's voice: "Where are you going?"

She looked behind her, momentarily torn. "Our weapons are in the hut. These people have nothing more sophisticated than bows and arrows. We have to defend them."

"Fine. I'll come with you."

"Daniel, you're..." She stopped. A liability was the most honest way to finish the sentence, but she couldn't say it. "You're injured. I can't watch out for both of us at once. Stay here, don't move and I will come back."

"Sam..."

She put a hand to his face, drawing her fingertips along the bare skin below the bandage line. "I will come back. I promise."

He took a breath. "All right. Okay."

Sam looked at him, glad he could not see the concern she knew her expression must be betraying right now. Then she turned and crawled out of the shadow of the building, into the line of fire.

She picked herself up and ran.

* * *

"Sheldrick! Doyle!"

Caliburn was running full tilt through the heart of the village, dodging falling masonry and terrified Keltoi with equal dexterity. He caught up with his patrol as they appeared from behind a dwelling just ahead of him. "Where's Hart?"

Sheldrick shook his head. "Ain't seen him since dinner."

"Then we'll find him on the way. What the hell is that?"

"Death Glider," said Doyle.

"It's a what...? No, tell me later," he amended, as the Corporal opened his mouth to elaborate. His men may have had further briefings from Carter which he had not been privy to, but for the moment Rhys didn't need to know much more about the screeching, whining machine above his head other than that it was trying to kill him. "Come on," he told them, and headed off again, Sheldrick and Doyle hard behind him.

* * *

O'Neill started, and coughed himself awake. A few more hours in here and everything he had achieved on behalf of his lungs in these past nicotine-free couple of years would be undone. He looked down at Teal'c, and satisfied himself that the Jaffa was still asleep. The interior of the hut was perfectly still. He wondered what had woken him.

The explosion came as something of a surprise.

The hut, and the ground beneath, jolted and shook. Several branches from the structure which supported the ceiling collapsed. Jack leapt to his feet and began to make for the door, nearly colliding with Cerian as she returned.

"What's happening?"

She stared at him, terrified. "No one knows. There are lights, in the sky. The ground burns..."

"Shit." Jack looked at her, and then down at Teal'c. "Will you stay with him? Whatever happens, will you stay?"

She nodded mutely.

"Will you stay?" he repeated.

She looked up. "I will stay."

Jack nodded. "I'm going to find the others. We'll do what we can."

He left, coughing the last of the smoke out of his lungs as he went.

* * *

By the time O'Neill reached the hut at the far end of the village, Carter was already distributing weapons between Caliburn, Doyle and Sheldrick. There was no sign of Hart- or, for that matter, Pinker. "Colonel!" she called, and threw him one of the MP-5's.

"Where's Daniel?"

"I found shelter for him and told him to stay put." She shook her head. "I had to go."

O'Neill nodded. She would have had no option but to leave him.

There was a high-pitched whining noise in the inky night sky above. Carter looked up anxiously. "We only have a minute or two before the Glider makes another pass."

Caliburn hefted his weapon, clipping the ammo into place. "Will what we've got bring it down?"

Jack shook his head. "Not a chance. We might as well throw rocks at it. But we might be able to use these against the ground forces."

"Ground forces?" asked the Major.

"Typical Goa'uld tactics would be to soften the target with an air attack, then send in Jaffa infantry," explained Carter. "But there's no access to the settlement from the river side, so..."

"...So we can expect the Glider to concentrate on taking out the walls or gates on the next pass," finished Jack.

Caliburn looked in O'Neill's direction. "You've met these things before. What's the best response?"

Jack looked at Sheldrick and Doyle, who were listening intently. "Carter, are they up to speed?"

"The General briefed them himself."

Jack pointed at the Lieutenant and the Corporal. "You two take the wall on the far side of the meeting hall. Try to stop any ground troops breaking through. If you're outnumbered, fall back. But there's only one Glider: if we're lucky, this is just a raid and we might be able to hold them off. Carter, you're on the opposite wall. If you find Hart or Pinker get them to help."

The reply was a chorus of fast affirmatives, and the three officers left at a run.

"Major, you and I will take the main gates." Jack grinned, as somewhere very close there was another explosion: "And on the way, we'll do the fastest briefing on alien battle strategies you've ever had."

"Fastest?" repeated Caliburn. "Try only."

 

* * *

Carter rounded the corner of a store-house at full tilt, and nearly flattened Hart, who was coming in the other direction. Daron was right behind him. "Captain!" he gasped: "What's happening?"

She threw him the spare gun she was carrying. "We're under attack. Come with me. Daron, better find yourself somewhere safe."

The young woman shook her head. "This is my home. This is supposed to be safe."

Carter hesitated, then nodded. "Stay behind me and do exactly what I tell you."

She ran on without waiting for a reply.

* * *

A rush of blistering heat passed a little too close to Daniel's arm for comfort, and he yelped and tried to back himself further away from the source of the scorching sensation. He could tell from the crackling noises and shouts all around him that the village was being razed. So far, however, his calls for assistance or, failing that, for someone just to take a second and tell him what the hell was going on, had generated no response whatsoever. Evidently there was no time in this crisis to spare for a blind man.

He wanted to find the others. Wanted to know what was happening. Wanted to help. Wanted not to feel so helpless.

 

But walking out into the middle of that would be suicide.

"Mama! Mama! Where are you?"

The child's voice was a rising cry of panic and fear, and was coming from somewhere very close to him. "Mama? Mama!"

"Ahh, hello?" he called. "Are you all right?"

The response which his tentative enquiry produced was sudden and dramatic: a small, warm body collapsed into Daniel's arms and began to sob into his jacket. He wrapped his arms around- him? Her? Well, he could figure that one out in a minute- and offered a gentle stream of murmured reassurances.

"I want my mother."

Yes, thought Daniel, you and me both. "What's your name?"

"Teleri."

That sounded vaguely feminine. He decided, for the sake of argument, that Teleri was a girl. "Hello, Teleri. I'm Daniel."

"I want my mother," she repeated, and tried to pull away from him: "I'm going to get my mother back."

Daniel suspected that the village in its current state of panic and confusion would be as much of a death-trap for an unaccompanied child as it would be for a sightless adult. "Teleri, that's not a good idea. Why don't you stay here with me until this is over, and then we'll find your mother, okay?" There was no reply. He held her closer. "Okay?"

He could feel her tiny form shaking against him, and he could tell she was crying. He wished he could look her in the eye to offer comfort. "C'mon, Teleri," he said softly, more to himself than her, "I could do with some company too right now."

She relaxed against his chest, and although he still held her, he allowed his arms to loosen around her, confident now that she was not on the point of running off. Her hair, fuzzy and ticklish, brushed his chin, smelling of sweet, strange herbs and home-made soap.

Suddenly something she had said clicked.

"Teleri," he probed gently: "What did you mean, get your mother back?"

"We have to get her back. From the things that took her."

A cold, crawling sensation began in the pit of Daniel's stomach. "The things that took her?"

"The bird things. The men with birds' heads."

She began to cry again, and he apologised for making her think about bad things. Then he rocked her back and forth as they listened to the settlement being destroyed around them.

**Ten**

"Incoming!"

The Glider was making another low pass over the Keltoi village. Sam dived for cover, pulling Daron down with her. "Hart! Get down!"

She rolled over, and saw with horror that the Sergeant was standing directly under the path of the craft, shooting straight up at its exposed underside. "Get down!" she screamed at him. "It's too well shielded. There's no point!"

In the confusion of noise and fire which reigned around them, her words were lost to the tumult, and Hart continued his useless assault, unheeding. "Stay here," Carter instructed Daron and, making a dash across the open ground, tackled Hart at the knees and brought him down. They rolled in an unlikely pairing across the blackened ground until the tumbling motion was stopped by the trunk of a felled tree.

Carter stood up and pulled Hart to his feet, swearing liberally at him. Then she saw the panicked form huddling behind the log.

"Pinker?"

"What is this?" he asked, voice pleading and desperate. "What is this? What is this?"

His pupils were fully dilated and his skin was cold and clammy. Sam recognised shock when she saw it. She hauled him to his feet. "We should get him somewhere relatively safe," she said to Hart: "He's going to be no help like this."

Hart nodded. "Further inside the village..." he began, and then looked up. "Shit. I think I did it. I think I brought it down."

Carter followed the line of his gaze, and saw that the Glider was falling rapidly out of the dark sky above them. Then she looked more closely, and realised that there was no smoke or flames emanating from its engines, and that its descent was, although fast, controlled.

"No," she said: "It's landing."

There was a high-pitched whine and the air around them began to vibrate. The Glider hovered a few yards above ground level. Sam was close enough to see the ultrasound emitters on its nose hum and shake. She clasped her hands over her ears.

"Move!" she yelled at Hart. "Get away!"

It was useless. The blanket of white noise around them drowned out her words even to herself, and Hart reeled away from her, blood beginning to leak from his nose. Sam felt her vision blur as she staggered two more steps, then three, and collapsed on to her knees.

Strong hands lifted her and bore her upwards. As she lost consciousness, she remembered suddenly the words her father would use to soothe her to sleep when she had been very young. Let it lift you away, Sammy.

Up, up, into the sky and far away.

* * *

The village was burning.

Jack ran through arches of fire, created when the blasts from the screeching Glider overhead made contact with the buildings' dry tinder. Around him, desperate-faced men and women were running between the river and their homes carrying buckets, bowls and jugs, while flaming branches collapsed on to the narrow lanes between dwellings, making many of the routes they tried impassable. Several times, O'Neill and Caliburn were forced to double back on themselves, searching for a clear path to the village's main entrance.

They arrived seconds too late.

The Glider descended from out of the starry sky, screaming like a bird of prey making ready for the kill. There was a series of four, maybe five, muffled thuds of artificial thunder, as the blasts of heat it released passed through the air, causing pockets to expand and then immediately collapse. A succession of bright blue flashes fell to ground at the village gates.

And then the gates were gone.

Jack heard a cry of pain, and saw the man who had led the hunters who had found them- Idris, he remembered- lying prone on the blackened earth as another man attempted to stem the blood pouring from the wound in his leg.

The left hand gate was gone; the right hand one hung off its frame like a broken child's toy. The space between them was obscured by billowing clouds of acrid smoke.

"Here," said Jack, suddenly certain. "It'll be here."

Beside O'Neill, Caliburn tensed, his breathing fast but controlled. He raised his weapon. And then...

The Jaffa warriors stepped out of the clearing haze, the golden-beaked helmets they wore giving them a bizarre, top-heavy appearance.

And there were no others following them.

Two? Thought Jack. Two Jaffa and a Glider? What the hell is this, a training session? Unless there were others, elsewhere in the village. Unless the Glider...

The Jaffa approached, stepping over the screaming Idris as if he were inconsequential.

"Fire," said O'Neill.

He knew that the sub-machine guns they were using would most likely be ineffective against the warriors' superior armour, unless either he or the Major landed a lucky shot. But they did have the advantage of surprise: the Jaffa must be expecting to be met by nothing more sophisticated than arrows and spears.

The Jaffa closest to them took a volley of shots to the chest: they did not pierce his armour, but Jack could see it denting, and the force of the multiple impacts knocked the soldier sideways, momentarily highlighting his hawkshead silhouette as he fell. His companion turned his body to and fro, searching for the source of the unexpected resistance. Caliburn was firing at him, and Jack switched his aim to the standing Jaffa as well. The tactic was successful, and he toppled with the slow dignity of a bronze statue. Jack grinned at Caliburn. "The armour looks great, but it's a bitch to move in."

"What now?"

"Get those staff weapons. They might do some damage to the Glider."

Breaking cover, they ran across the open space, towards the gap where the gates had been. The nearest Jaffa was attempting to sit up, and Jack knocked him backwards again with a firm kick to the chest. He made a grab for the man's weapon, but the soldier did not intend to give it up easily, and a scuffle ensued.

"O'Neill!"

Caliburn's shout made him look up, and he saw what had made the Major cry out. A third form was entering the village through the ruined gates.

It was not a Jaffa; it was too small. It was not even large enough to be an adult. It was...

Jack stared. It was a child.

The boy looked to be no more than eight or nine years old. He was dressed in a white robe inlaid with jewels which reflected the light of the fires which raged around him. His head was shaven, except for a long plait which began at the crown of his scalp and fell, interwoven with coloured silks and more gemstones, half way down his back. His skin was tawny brown, and his eyes...

His eyes were not human. The bright, golden speckled irises surrounded tiny, beady pupils which regarded Jack with a hard and glittering gaze. They reminded him of a bird's eyes. A bird of prey.

And they glowed fiercely with an alien, snake-like intelligence.

The child was Goa'uld.

The Jaffa's fingers relaxed for the shortest of seconds, and suddenly Jack found that he was holding the man's staff weapon. He lifted it, and aimed.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" yelled Caliburn. "That's a child, for God's sake!"

"No, it isn't," said O'Neill. He held the weapon straight. Still did not fire.

The boy's lips twisted upwards in a parody of humour. He raised one stick-like arm and unfurled a hand, revealing the mesh of golden-brown alloy which enveloped it like a glove.

The air in front of Jack rippled and shimmered as if in a heatwave. The last thing he saw before the blast caught him full in the chest was the boy's smile: an old, old smile in a child's face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

  


**The Horus Child**

**One**

Rhys woke up, and immediately wished he hadn't.

At least, he thought grimly, if anyone ever asked him what being hit in the face with the blast from an energy weapon felt like, he'd be able to tell them. It felt bloody awful.

His head buzzed, and an oily, metallic taste at the back of his throat made him want to gag. He sat very still, then he did gag, and rolled over, retching into the dirt.

"Take it easy, sir. Don't choke."

The nausea subsided, not completely, but enough to allow Caliburn to sit up. He rubbed at his temples experimentally, just in case it helped. It didn't.

"Water?" he asked thickly.

"There you go."

A cup was lifted to his mouth, and he sipped at it slowly, resisting the temptation to drink too quickly. Apparently being knocked unconscious by the discharge from an energy weapon left a person dehydrated. He made a mental note for future reference.

The sun was bright, and hurt his eyes. Shouldn't it still be night-time? He blinked, and tried to focus on the face in front of him. "Doyle?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long was I out?"

"About six hours, sir."

Rhys nodded, taking this in. Nearby, O'Neill was standing against the one remaining wall of a demolished building, leaning against it for support while he massaged the backs of his calves. "Good morning, Major."

"Not really," answered Rhys. He tried to stand up and failed. He had no feeling at all below his knees.

"Stretch a little on the ground first," counselled O'Neill. "Then try getting up. Trust me, I'm an expert."

Rhys followed the advice, rubbing the sensation back into his dead limbs. "The child..." he began.

"The kid wasn't a kid," said O'Neill. "It was a Goa'uld. You can always tell by the eyes."

The blood was rushing back into Rhys' legs now, bringing with it a rash of stinging pains over the surface of his skin and in his muscles. It was pins and needles factored up by ten. He ignored it and kept rubbing, looking about himself as he did so.

The settlement was a wasteland.

Rhys remembered losing consciousness at the gates, but he had been moved at some point to the central square of the village, as had the rest of the injured. And there were a lot of them. Caliburn had guessed at the previous evening's banquet that the Keltoi numbered perhaps five hundred; there were as many as one hundred here. An attack which left one fifth of the target population in need of medical attention wasn't just successful, it was a massacre. He could see Sheldrick and Cerian moving among them, administering first aid, but it was clear that there was more suffering here than two people could hope to ease.

And then there was the village itself.

Barely a single building, dwelling or store-house had escaped unscathed. Many of the well kept, brightly lit homes he had seen at dusk the previous evening were now smoking ruins. Most of those still standing no longer looked structurally sound. The gates were gone, the fences lining the settlement's perimeter ripped open, gaping wounds exposing the forest beyond. The meeting house still possessed four standing walls but had lost its roof. And the tree, the oak tree which stood at the heart of the Keltoi community, had been felled.

"Report," he said to Doyle.

"We've got maybe sixty walking wounded, twenty Sheldrick reckons need hospital treatment if they're to pull through, ten dead and fifteen unaccounted for."

"Are they hiding in the jungle?"

"No, sir. We think they've been abducted. The, ahh, bird-headed men took them. The Jaffa. People saw it happen."

Caliburn looked at O'Neill, who said: "The attack at the front gates was a diversion. While we were occupied there, the Glider landed and two other Jaffa started snatching people."

"Who?"

"Carter," said O'Neill. He looked sick. "Hart. Daron. Pinker. Others."

Hart. Shit. Rhys shook his head, as if by doing so he could displace the tingling pain which clung to his nerve endings. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

"Yeah," said O'Neill: "That gets my vote for Question Of The Morning."

* * *

"Teleri, help me."

Daniel had finished bandaging the leg of an injured woman, a task made at least twice as slow and twice as difficult as it should have been by the fact that he was working by touch alone. He stood up and held out a hand. Very quickly he felt the small, firm grip of his new eyes take hold of his fingers and lead him towards the next casualty. He was not sure how much good he was achieving, but the alternative was to sit and do nothing. He had badgered Sheldrick until he was given a job, and Teleri had hung around long enough to be press-ganged into helping him do it. Her mother was among the missing, and Daniel figured that she was best off somewhere where he could keep an eye on her.

Metaphorically speaking.

A sharp pain across the bridge of his nose made him raise his free hand to the bandages around his own injuries. They felt slightly damp around the edges. They would need changed again soon, or he would risk infection. He would have to get Daron...

No Daron.

And no Sam either.

"Daniel, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Teleri. My eyes, ahhh, hurt a little, that's all."

"Dr Jackson!"

As pointless as the action was, Daniel raised his head in the direction of Doyle's voice. "Right here."

"Crisis meeting by the oak tree in ten minutes. Colonel O'Neill said to tell you."

"I'll be there."

Led by the girl, he moved on to the next casualty.

* * *

It was like being underwater.

Sam sat up groggily and looked around herself, blinking in an effort to clear her vision. It didn't help: the world was drowned in a blue wash of rippling, unfocused light. Carter rubbed at her eyes, suddenly afraid she had damaged her sight.

Then she looked again, and realised that the effect was not behind her retinas but in front of them. The blue shimmer hung in the air, a wall of light which stretched like gauze between two high engraved posts rammed deep into the ground. Sam turned her head, ignoring the sensation of nausea that the motion provoked, and saw a third post behind her. Along with a dozen or so others, she was in a triangular pen which was approximately fifteen feet along each side.

"Captain Carter!"

She looked around until she located the source of the familiar English-accented voice. "Hart?"

The Sergeant was sitting on the bare ground, while Daron dabbed carefully at a cluster of blackened calluses on the palms of his hands. Pinker sat beside them, looking on, and although he was pale and nervous, the blind panic which had overtaken him the previous evening seemed to be under control. Sam supposed she should feel some measure of sympathy for him, then decided that she couldn't muster the effort required to generate it.

She didn't yet feel capable of standing up, so she crawled over to join the others on all fours. "What happened to you?" she asked the Sergeant, and swallowed. Her mouth was dry, and she was sorry she had taken off her canteen before attending the banquet.

Hart nodded in the direction of one glimmering wall. "I tried to get out," he said sheepishly. "The light burnt me."

"It's a Goa'uld energy field," Sam told him. "The harder you push it, the harder it pushes back."

Hart grimaced as Daron rubbed a small amount of balm into his scorched palms. "Now I find out."

Pinker looked at her curiously. "How do you know it's the Goa'uld we're dealing with?"

Sam pointed through the force field at the wavering, distorted real world beyond it. "Because that's a Goa'uld ship."

The craft was pyramid-shaped, and obviously Goa'uld, although it was somewhat smaller than any Sam had seen before. Set amongst the dense forest vegetation, it looked oddly incongruous: no matter how many of the things Carter saw, pyramids remained firmly entrenched in her mind as belonging to the deserts of Egypt. They weren't supposed to fly and they weren't supposed to open up to launch squadrons of Death Gliders. And they certainly weren't supposed to squat like a some giant child's building block on top of the jungle.

"Goa'uld?" said Daron. "No. That is not possible. We are well hidden here."

"Apparently not any more," said Sam grimly.

Hart looked warily towards the alien ship. "Wish I still had my weapon."

"It wouldn't do much good against Goa'uld technology anyway," Carter told him. Beside her, Daron had finished ministering to Hart's injuries, and was replacing the tiny jar of salve she had been using in one of the multitude of small bags she wore on her sash. "Although we might have something we could use. Daron, are you carrying any snakesbane?"

The Keltoi woman nodded, and untied one of the other pouches. "A measure."

"Mind if we take it?"

"This is marvellous," said Pinker as Daron handed over the bag: "They have all the technology of a highly advanced alien civilisation, and we have a small bag of roots. Fan-bloody-tastic."

Sam slipped the herbs into a pocket and zipped it up. "The snakesbane obviously contains a substance which is highly toxic to the Goa'uld. And right now we need every advantage we can get."

A movement outside the pen attracted her attention, and she looked around to see what appeared to be, but almost certainly was not, a stone in the pyramid-ship's nearest face began to dissolve, allowing two of the Jaffa who had attacked the village to emerge. Falling into step with one another, they crossed the wide forest clearing and halted opposite the two guards positioned with their backs to the pen. There was a muttered exchange of orders, and the sentries raised their staff weapons while the new arrivals stepped forward, each reaching out to touch a corner-post. One side of the triangle shimmered and disappeared.

Carter held her breath as one of the Jaffa entered the enclosure. The two remaining force fields formed a V-shape, and the potential exit was wide in front of her. The guards were out-numbered, she thought: perhaps if they made a rush for them...

No, that was madness. The Jaffa were in the minority, but they were also armed, and there was nowhere for the Keltoi to retreat to. There was nothing to do except play along. For now.

The nearest Jaffa raised his staff, and a tremor of near-panic passed through the group. But he was using it to point out individuals, Sam realised. First herself, then Hart and Pinker. "You. Come."

Hart looked at her, and she nodded. She saw him exchange a glance, and the thinnest of reassuring smiles, with Daron, while one of the other Jaffa grabbed Pinker and dragged him forwards.

"What now?" Pinker asked in a low voice as the enclosure was sealed off behind them and they were escorted towards the ship.

"We get to meet the Goa'uld," she whispered back.

"Any possibility of negotiating something?"

Sam looked at him. "This thing puts people in pens as if they were animals. What do you think?"

* * *

Jack found Cerian carefully rubbing a white, oily substance into the flaps of skin which covered the pouch in Teal'c's stomach. The flesh around the pouch was swollen and distended, so that the hole in his belly lay exposed. It was an open wound, raw and ugly.

Cerian didn't look up from her task. "You are awake," she said to Jack. "Good. When I was brought to you, you were so cold that I feared you were dead."

"I had a few moments of doubt myself," he told her, and knelt by Teal'c's side. "Cerian, I appreciate that you're trying to carry this through, but we've kinda got a crisis going down here. I think you should put the larva back."

She looked at him, expression stony.

"It is no longer alive, O'Neill," breathed Teal'c, eyes still shut. "It died when it was removed."

"You're awake," said Jack, surprised. He looked at Cerian. "You said he wasn't going to wake up."

"I said he should not be allowed to wake. But the hut began to burn... we would both have been killed..." Her head dropped as she broke eye contact. "I am sorry."

And Jack understood. Forced to choose between allowing Teal'c to die on the spot as the flames engulfed Cerian's dwelling or condemning him to a slower death by preventing the herbal drugs from completing their healing work on his body, Cerian had made the decision to rouse him. Jack stared at her tiny, bird-like frame and wondered where in hell she had found the resources of strength and endurance to wake and move the Jaffa. The woman must have the stamina of an ox. But she could not see it that way, because now Teal'c was in the worst situation possible, with neither a symbiont nor a fully functional immune system.

He was slowly dying, and Cerian was blaming herself.

"You stayed with him," Jack told her. "You saved him. Thank you."

She looked at him, eyes bitter. "What have I saved him for?"

"Cerian."

The reply was a snap. "Pyrs, I am occupied."

The young man, who carried one arm awkwardly in a hastily improvised sling, blinked at the terseness in her voice, but persevered. "Dicenos asks for you."

"Dicenos was hurt?" asked Jack.

"He was not injured. But he is old, and his heart is not a young man's." Cerian handed Jack the bowl she was using. "I should go to him. Complete this." And then she was gone.

Jack lifted the tub of white salve and sniffed it experimentally. It looked like petroleum jelly and smelt like coal tar. He made a face, then scooped some out using the first three fingers of his right hand. Gingerly, he rubbed the substance on to the skin around the pouch. "Yell if it stings, okay?"

"It does not sting."

"Well, that's good."

"I do not feel anything."

"That's not so good. What's this stuff supposed to do, anyhow?"

"Slow down the onset of infection."

"Will it?"

Teal'c opened his eyes. "For a little while, perhaps. Not for long."

Jack looked at him. "How long?"

"Perhaps a day. No longer."

"Until you get sick?"

"Until I die."

Jack began to spread another blob of the white goo on to the Jaffa's stomach. "That's not going to happen. We'll get you a new larva."

"There are no Goa'uld here. That is why the Keltoi came to this world."

"Correction: there were no Goa'uld here. Who d'you think was behind last night's extensive urban renewal program?"

Teal'c frowned. "Which of the system lords is here?"

O'Neill shook his head. "No one I've had the pleasure of meeting before. It's a weird one, though. The host is a kid. A boy, maybe ten years old, with eyes like a bird's. Ring any bells?"

"I hear no bells, but I know of the Goa'uld." Teal'c's voice had faded to almost a whisper, and Jack realised just how weak he was. "It is Hor-pa-khred. The Horus Child."

**Two**

The interior of the ship was the same strange discordant mixture of ancient and advanced Sam had seen before and which the Goa'uld seemed to favour. Its corridors were lined with high Doric pillars, utterly redundant in terms of providing support. She guessed their true purpose was to emphasise the imposing height of the ceilings above. A succession of hieroglyphic murals- no doubt extolling the might and power of the ship's owner- served to enhance the effect from either side. But the impression Sam was left with was one of smallness, as if this was a miniature version of the other Goa'uld vessels she had seen. Perhaps it was a landing craft, and there was a mother ship in orbit. Or perhaps this was the craft of a very minor system lord. Goa'uld on a budget, she thought, and wondered if the Colonel's sense of humour was finally wearing off on her.

The Jaffa ushered them into a gloomy chamber whose four walls tapered to a single tip high above: they were, Sam realised, right under the apex of the pyramid. The guards exited, sealing the door behind them, and just as Carter was about to step forward to investigate the arch on the far side of the room, another rippling gossamer force field sprang into existence in front of them, effectively dividing the room into two halves.

"What do you think they want with us?" asked Pinker nervously. He was swaying rapidly from one foot to the other, making Sam feel vaguely seasick.

"If it came to attack the Keltoi, it probably wants to know why we're not Keltoi," she hazarded.

//You are quite correct//

Sam was looking at Hart, who was standing behind her. She registered his reaction before turning to see the source of the words for herself.

She gaped.

A child host?

The boy had the appearance of a slightly sickly ten year old, although Carter had no doubt that he was much, much older. If the sarcophagi could retard the ageing process in adults, they could surely slow or arrest the growth of children. And, while this had undoubtedly been a child, the pallid sheen to its complexion and the thinness to its limbs reminded her more of an old man than a youth.

And then there were its eyes.

Sam stared at them; she couldn't help it. Speckled, birdlike pupils darted and flashed around the room, absorbing all, leaving no detail unexamined. The host was human, but the eyes...

//The writings which spoke of the last of Ra's Jaffa made it clear that they escaped to an isolated world// said the boy, in a mockery of childish speech.

"What the hell...?" breathed Hart.

The boy ignored him. //But you are not Jaffa, and your weapons, although primitive, are further advanced than those of the fugitives. What are your origins?//

"Ahhh," began Pinker, stepping forward. "We're from a place called Earth."

"Shut up, Pinker," snapped Carter.

"Captain, he doesn't think we're animals, he's talking to us..."

"Shut up!"

//What are your origins?// repeated the boy.

There was a silence. Then Hart, regaining his composure, snapped to attention. "Sergeant Derek Hart," he said sharply. "Armed forces of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Special Air Services, Sabre Squadron A."

Carter nodded. "Captain Samantha Carter, United States of America Air Force," she said briskly, eyeing the Goa'uld. "Sorry. That's all you get."

The boy smiled, with chilling precision. //And you?// he enquired of Pinker.

"Stephen Pinker. I work for the British Government." He smiled back. "Not that you know what that is."

//I do not. But I would be fascinated to learn.// The child approached the force field which protected him. //I am Horus Son of Isis. I am Horus Avenger of my Father Osiris. I am Horus enemy of Seth. And I owe you my thanks//

Carter felt suddenly cold.

"You do?" said Pinker.

//But yes. I have been searching for the fugitive Jaffa for a long time. But it was not until my machines sensed the opening of a Gate where no Gate should be that I was able to find them. You led me here, and now they can be joyful in my service//

Its smile widened.

//Thank you//

* * *

The oak tree had been felled at some point during the attack by a stray blast from the Glider, and its thick trunk lay across the square at the centre of the settlement, one more corpse under the morning sun. Jack helped Teal'c towards it, and waited while he slowly sat on the ground, leaning against the mossy, rugged bark. The Jaffa could still walk- just about- although how much longer his strength would hold out was debatable. O'Neill didn't want to think about that.

Doyle, arriving next, took up a place on the ground, and Sheldrick followed his example. Daniel appeared, walking slowly through the debris, one hand resting on the shoulder of the white-haired, dark-skinned child who was acting as his guide.

Daniel blinded, Teal'c dying, Carter missing, thought Jack. Bad things really did come in threes.

He should never have brought them here.

This wasn't a mission; those were different. Every time they stepped through the Gate in the SGC they each accepted the risks that came with walking through the wormhole to somewhere entirely new. This had been an accident, and the decision to follow Caliburn and his men- Jack's decision- had been a rash one. Carter, Daniel and Teal'c had come to this world not because of the Gate project but out of personal loyalty to himself. They were here only because he had asked them to come. There was a thin line between commanding a unit within acceptable parameters and stepping outside those parameters. Jack knew he had crossed it.

And now they were all paying for his mistake.

"Y'know, Danny," he said, forcing a note of humour into his voice: "Don't take this the wrong way, but she's just a little too young for you. Do I get an introduction?"

"Ahh, Jack, this is Teleri. Teleri, this is Jack." Daniel leaned closer to the girl: "If he asks you to dinner, run away. Fast."

The child giggled, flattered by the attention she was receiving. "I'm Daniel's eyes," she said proudly.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this," Jack told her, "but Daniel has very, very pretty eyes."

Caliburn emerged from behind the leafy limbs of the fallen oak, and assumed a position opposite Jack. "I've spoken to the Keltoi," he reported, "and it appears that there were only four raiders, two in the Glider and two guarding the child."

Sheldrick shook his head in disbelief. "Four blokes and a little lad did this?"

"Four guys, a kid and a hell of a lot of advanced Goa'uld weaponry," said Jack. "And they had the advantage of surprise. We didn't stand a chance."

"That child," said Caliburn slowly: "You said that was a Goa'uld?" Jack nodded. "Then it's an infant? Like the one Teal'c was carrying?"

"No, the Goa'uld is mature," corrected Daniel: "But it's chosen an immature human host."

"Why?" asked Doyle. "I mean, these creatures can be in any kind of body they want, right? So if it were me, I'd choose the biggest, meanest host available. Why be a child?"

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" agreed Daniel. "A child might be desirable on the grounds that the host personality isn't fully formed and is therefore easier to subjugate. But none of the other Goa'uld we've encountered so far seems to have had any trouble controlling the host."

"Hor-pa-khred always takes a child host. When one matures, the Goa'uld abandons it for the next," said Teal'c. He spoke slowly, and with unnaturally long pauses between his sentences.

"Hor-pa-khred...?" echoed Daniel. "The Horus Child. Of course."

"The what?" asked Caliburn.

Daniel turned his head in the direction of the Major's voice. "From Egyptian mythology. Horus was the child of Isis and Osiris. He wasn't so much one god as a synthesis of several. Over various dynasties and in various places, he was worshipped in his capacity as Isis's child, as the enemy of his father's murderer Seth, even as a kind of variation on the sun god: he was Horus-Khenty-en-Irty, Horus Foremost One Without Eyes- the face of the sky when both the sun and the moon are hidden."

"And we've run into Horus Junior?" said Jack.

"Apparently so. Teal'c, where does Horus fit in the Goa'uld hierarchy?"

"He was once powerful. When I was a young warrior, all the Goa'uld feared the family of Osiris-Isis-Horus. Then Seth, the most powerful single system lord at that time, rose up against them. Osiris was killed, and Isis retreated into mourning. It was said that Seth gouged out Horus' eyes while Isis was made to watch."

"Niiice," drawled O'Neill.

"Horus vanished, and it was believed that he was dead. Ra offered his Jaffa, the Horus-Guard, sanctuary if they would pledge allegiance to him. They did, and the rise of the house of Ra began."

"And that was today's class in Goa'uld society and development," said Jack: "Papers in by the end of the week, please."

Caliburn frowned. "So what's he doing here?"

"Trying to re-establish himself."

"Daniel?"

"Well, think about it. He's been in the wilderness, so to speak, for a long time. Presumably he wants to start making a comeback. To do that he needs resources. And Jaffa."

"He has Jaffa," pointed out Jack. "We saw them last night."

Teal'c shook his head, with difficulty. "It was said among the warriors who taught me that when Ra offered asylum to the Horus-Guard, four refused and remained loyal to Hor-pa-khred. They were known as the Sons of Horus. They were renowned as the fiercest of the Guard."

Daniel nodded enthusiastically. "They're in the mythology too: Imset, Haapy, Duamutef and Qebehsenuf."

"He's here for the Keltoi," said Caliburn quietly. "He wants to blast them into submission then take them and put those...things...in them. And then they'll have to serve him."

"They will be slaves once more," said Teal'c.

"No they won't," said Doyle. "because we won't let it happen. Right?"

Sheldrick nodded, and addressed O'Neill. "Horus may have superior fire-power, but there are maybe five hundred Keltoi plus us."

"Five hundred Keltoi who've been isolated for at least a millennium," said Daniel. "These people aren't soldiers: they're hunter gatherers. Look around you. The ones who aren't injured after last night are in shock. They've never been attacked like this before. Their homes are gone. They're not soldiers in waiting, they're victims." Daniel's face was mostly hidden, but O'Neill could hear the appeal in his voice: "Jack, don't even think about a counter-offensive. It would be a slaughter."

"So what's the alternative?" asked Caliburn.

"Evacuate them," responded Daniel instantly. "Bring them back with us and use our Gate to find them somewhere else to live, somewhere Horus won't find them. We've done it before."

"That's one hell of an undertaking you're suggesting, Doctor. We don't exactly have the manpower here to make it happen."

"And we have the manpower to start a war?"

"Daniel," said Jack. He met the Major's gaze. "It's not our call anyhow. What the Keltoi decide to do next is up to Dicenos."

"No longer."

Cerian's voice was raw, hoarse with exhaustion. Jack looked up to see her approaching, pushing her way through the felled oak's broken branches. Her long white hair had fallen out of the knot which had held it back, and trails of it hung around her face, accentuating her haggard expression.

"Dicenos is dead."

**Three**

The cell was small, airless and windowless; there was barely enough room for Carter and Hart to sit on its narrow floor at the same time. They made best use of the available floor space by occupying diagonally opposite corners, setting aside for the moment the tacit rules of personal space and allowing their legs to cross in the centre of the cell.

"What's with the voice?" asked Hart.

Sam shrugged. "The Goa'uld control their hosts directly through the brain. Except for the voice. The parasite has a specially adapted tendril which locks around the host's vocal cords. The creature controls the host's words through mechanical interference, and that distorts the natural speech patterns. There's no good biological reason for it: they could easily control the speech centres of the brain. But I have my own theory why the Goa'uld choose to talk like that."

"Go on."

"The voice proves the Goa'uld is in complete control of the host. I think they just like ramming the point home."

Hart suppressed a shudder, not wholly successfully. "Why do you think Horus wanted Pinker to stay?" he asked. Sam noted the change of subject.

"Probably because he thinks Mr Pinker is most willing to tell him whatever he wants to know."

Hart made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. "He's right. You saw the way that bloody spook was crawling to that... that thing." He shook his head. "Lucky for us he doesn't know anything worth telling."

Sam thought about that, and wondered. Pinker could tell Horus about Earth, about the Gate, about the SGC and the people stationed there. He may not know technical or scientific data, but he knew about the iris shield, and other details Carter would have preferred he did not. And, having been briefed by Hammond at the same time as Sheldrick and Doyle, he now knew what information SGC had about their enemies. That in itself was valuable knowledge. I know that you know that I know... she thought with distaste. This whole disastrous episode had been caused by subterfuge and ignorance.

Sam unzipped her jacket pocket and took out Daron's bag of snakesbane. She began to untie the knotted cord which sealed it. "Hold out your hands," she instructed Hart.

He obeyed, and she poured half the contents of the pouch into his cupped palms. "How effective do you reckon this stuff is?" he asked doubtfully.

"According to Keltoi legend, it's effective enough to kill Goa'uld larvae if taken by the host."

"And what about grown up Goa'uld?"

Sam slipped her half of the portion of herbs into the sleeve of her jacket, where it would be more easily and less obviously retrievable. "Guess we'll find out."

* * *

The Keltoi Rhys recognised as Pyrs stood watch outside the hut in which Dicenos had died. He stood aside to allow Cerian, O'Neill and Caliburn into the tiny dwelling, which was one of the few to have survived the previous night's attack unscathed. The healer had asked them for help to prepare the body according to custom before she announced Dicenos' death to the community. Without waiting for a response, she had stumbled away, too tired and grief-stricken to be bothered with the niceties of polite intercourse. After a moment, O'Neill had risen to follow her, and Rhys had come as well.

Cerian had evidently already begun the task, as Dicenos' body lay in the aspect of sleep. His eyes were closed and his hands were folded neatly over his chest. Cerian paused at the doorway long enough to nod respectfully at the old man's body. Rhys and O'Neill hung back, waiting for instructions.

The healer disappeared behind the partition which divided the house into two rooms, and came back holding a thin blanket. "You will lift him while I place this beneath."

Rhys nodded, and went to stand at the top of the body. He waited until O'Neill had a firm grip on Dicenos's ankles, then placed his own hands under the corpse's shoulders.

"On three," said O'Neill: "One, two, three."

They lifted the corpse with a smooth, easy action- the old man had been spare- and Cerian quickly slipped the cloth underneath him. They set him down, and she began to fold the material, hiding his feet and his face. Then she ripped open his tunic, exposing the sealed scar of the pouch in his abdomen.

"Cerian," said O'Neill softly.

Cerian lifted a small bag, and removed her knife from the strap which held it to her shin. She leaned over the body and began to cut, tracing the lines of the scars with precision. "We open the false womb only after death," she said. "We place the snakesbane within it, so we can be sure that the demons from which we fled will not claim the soul on its journey to the life after."

Pushing aside the flaps of skin she had freed, she opened the bag and shook sprigs of the fresh herb into the wound. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved in silent recitation. Rhys offered up a small, swift prayer of his own on the old man's behalf.

Cerian stepped back from the body, pulling the gap in the cloth closed as she did so, creating a shroud.

"Cerian," said O'Neill quietly: "Who's in charge now?"

She turned to face him. "I am the next most senior of the council. Leadership passes to me."

The Colonel nodded. "Cerian, I understand this is difficult, but the Goa'uld who attacked the village last night could return at any time. You have to decide what the Keltoi are going to do now."

"Do?" she repeated dumbly. Her expression was distracted, and Rhys saw that she was numb with shock and grief.

"There are two possibilities," he pressed gently: "We can take everyone in the village away from here. Or we can stand and fight. We'll help you whatever you decide to do, but you have to decide."

"Have to decide?" echoed Cerian. She shook her head. "No, I..." She looked up at the two men. "Why must I decide? I am the healer here, not the council leader. Dicenos is the leader."

"Cerian..." began O'Neill.

"No!" she said sharply, anger animating her voice just as grief had deadened it. "What right have you to tell me what I must do? Our forefathers fled here from the Goa'uld Ra a hundred generations ago. The forest is cruel, but we have learned its ways. We understand this place. We have made it our home. And now you have come, and you have brought the Goa'uld with you. How dare you tell me what I must or must not do? You caused this!"

Rhys opened his mouth to tell her that their arrival and that of Horus were mere coincidence, then caught O'Neill's eye and stopped. The Keltoi had lived under the protection of total isolation since coming to this world; now an enemy had found them barely hours after that isolation had been broken. How much of a coincidence was that? Could they have inadvertently caused this?

"Whatever we've made wrong," said O'Neill, "we want to make it right. Trust us. Please."

Cerian stared at the Colonel, then Caliburn, and shook her head in disgust. "Why should I trust you? You are not Keltoi."

She looked away.

"I am," said Rhys.

Cerian turned back towards him, while O'Neill did a double take which, under other circumstances, Rhys would have found comical.

The healer hesitated, then stepped towards Rhys. She stood in front of him, and he met her gaze, seeing the trepidation within it. He reached out and took hold of her right arm just below the elbow, guided it until her hand found his stomach.

She began to unbutton his jacket, then the shirt beneath it, not once breaking eye contact. Rhys felt her hands, cool and dry, make contact with his flesh, exploring the skin with a feather-light touch.

Something in her eyes changed. "You are Keltoi," she said, a faint tone of wonder suffusing her voice.

Rhys nodded, and stood back, holding his undershirt open so that O'Neill also would be able to see the cross shaped mark on his stomach. "We're from another place," he said to Cerian, "but we have the same ancestors. We're your distant relatives. We want to help."

Cerian hesitated for a long moment. Finally she nodded, slowly but with growing certainty. "I must inform the village of Dicenos' death," she said. "Then I must confer with the remaining council members. We will decide."

"Thank you," said Rhys.

She moved towards the door. "I will return." She nodded again, in the direction of the body: "Please stay with him."

"Yes, ma'am," said O'Neill.

Cerian left.

Rhys sat down against one stone wall- the dwelling was one of the few stone structures in the village, that was probably why it was still standing- and let out a long, uneven breath. He looked up at O'Neill and grinned.

"When did you know?" asked the Colonel.

Rhys shrugged. "I suppose I worked it out when Daron returned Teal'c and Dr Jackson suggested that the Keltoi had come here via the Stones in Cornwall. It's not so surprising that some of them decided to stay and take their chances on Earth. Permanent exile isn't everyone's idea of a solution." He placed a hand on his stomach. "The birthmark runs in the family, down the Caliburn side. My grandmother used to tell me it meant we had Druid blood. Little did she know."

"You should have said something. You and Teal'c could have started a Jaffas-on-Earth support group."

"I think I would have been doing most of the talking. You'll have to excuse me, Colonel. The past couple of days have been just about the oddest I've ever lived through. And it's not that often a person finds out he's part alien."

"They're not aliens. They're just people whose ancestors got a really raw deal."

"As they are now." Rhys looked up at O'Neill. "Could she be right? Could we have brought the Goa'uld here?"

The Colonel squatted down on the ground beside Rhys. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I can't see how we could have, but the Keltoi have been hidden here a hundred generations, then the Goa'uld turn up a day after us. That's circumstantial evidence I could do without."

"I feel," said Rhys softly, "a certain sense of...kinship with them."

O'Neill nodded.

"We can't let them become slaves again."

"No," said the Colonel. "We can't."

* * *

//It is not a question of slavery// said Horus. //If that is what they have led you to believe, they have misled you//

"Oh?" said Pinker, keeping his tone carefully neutral. When Carter and Hart's stoic but foolish silences had begun to annoy their captor, he had seen no option but to maintain the dialogue with the boy by himself. The Captain and the Sergeant had glared, but short of physically jumping on him, there was little they could do to stop him talking. And talk he must, he knew. The military may entertain fine notions of saying nothing to the enemy, but it was clear that if they were to survive this, they would have to negotiate. Talk. Find out what the thing wanted, then find a way to placate it.

Pinker had no desire to see the people of the village suffer, but neither did he want to die. He really didn't want to die.

//Slavery is an ugly word, is it not?// asked Horus. //Some of my kind may treat the Jaffa as slaves, but not I. They are my bondsmen, my aids and my helps. They are my strength- for this form is but a child, as you observe- and my eyes, for you see that an enemy once robbed this body of its organs of sight, and I was forced to create these poor substitutes//

The boy blinked his hawk's eyes, and Pinker nodded, murmuring sympathy while privately thinking that the false eyes looked to be superior to the natural ones they had replaced in every respect. He could not believe that there were many things Horus did not see.

//I wish only to restore the proper order. The Jaffa are born to carry the children of the Goa'uld. It is their purpose. And, like all creatures, when they fulfil their purpose they are blessed. Did they not tell you of the advantages which carrying the larva brings?//

"No," admitted Pinker.

Horus smiled warmly. //The gifts are many. Long life is the first, freedom from illness, wasting and infirmity among the others. They are strong in body and spirit. The Jaffa prosper, and all we ask is that a few, a very few, should enter our service and use their many talents to our gain. This is not unreasonable, surely?//

"No," said Pinker slowly. "I suppose not."

//Where you come from, are there no Jaffa?//

"None."

//A strange world, indeed. I should like to know more of it.//

Pinker nodded. There it was, the opening he had known must come. The boy-thing had extended a feeler towards him, making clear the possibility that a bargain might be struck, an arrangement might be made. Now he was in familiar territory once more. Aliens, distant worlds, strange technologies—these things were unknown quantities to him, but Pinker had been dealing in the trade of knowledge and secrets all his adult life. And a deal with a Goa'uld, it seemed, was no different than a deal with any other rational, self-interest seeking being.

"I would be glad to answer all your questions," he said carefully. "In my culture, such openness would be considered evidence of willingness to trust. And be trusted."

//In mine also//

"But you are obviously of an advanced and intelligent race, and I must confess I feel slightly, ahh, nervous in your presence." Easy, Stephen, he thought. Don't sound like you're crawling. "What I mean is, I would be pleased to share my meagre knowledge with you, but I would be grateful for some, ahh, assurances in return."

The Goa'uld's voice was suddenly cold. //Such as?//

Pinker shivered, but pressed on regardless. "Well, I would want to be certain that you intended the Keltoi no harm."

//But I have explained how it is better for them to enter my service//

"Well, yes..." Pinker decided to gloss over that one for the moment. "I would also need to know that you intended to allow myself and the others who are not Keltoi to return to our home."

//Ahh. That is more problematic. You see, my enemies still pursue me, and I do not wish news of my actions and location to be widely disseminated. But you must not be afraid. No harm will come to you//

Pinker began to relax. "Well, thank you."

The boy smiled. //You too will enter my service, and be blessed. Like the Keltoi//

**Four**

Cerian was kneeling by the river, as if in prayer. For a second Rhys considered retreating into the rubble of the village and allowing her a few more minutes alone. God knew she could probably use them.

Then he saw that her eyes were open, and that she was trailing her fingers through the murky grey-green waters. He hesitated, and then approached.

The pebbles crunched under his boots, and she looked up. She reached down and, cupping her hands, swiftly sluiced water over her face; but not before Caliburn saw that her cheeks had already been wet.

She stood up, and stretched out an arm, taking in the ruins of the settlement behind them, the wandering, directionless Keltoi who moved among its shattered homes. "Even if this Goa'uld is as weak as you say, even if we fought and won..." She shook her head. "The stores are gone. The well is polluted. And so many of us are hurt now."

"O'Neill says that we can find you another place to live. Another place to make home."

"This is our home." She looked at him, her eyes lost and remote. "Can another place be home?"

Rhys sat down on the rock next to her, and watched how the thick, sluggish river water bore its cargo of branches, leaves and other forest debris slowly past his toes. "I grew up in a village, very like this. All the men worked in the mines nearby, and I always expected that I would too. All my friends were there, all my family. And then, when I was sixteen, my father sat me down and told me that the coal seams- the mineral they extracted- were running out. He told me there was no future for me there. He told me that I had to leave." Rhys smiled sadly at the memory. "He told me to get lost, in the nicest possible way."

"And you left."

He nodded. "I went away to be a soldier. Hated it, at first. I was far from what I knew, and I was alone."

"So you will tell me that you found another home."

Rhys began to say something, then stopped, feeling suddenly unsure. He approached Cerian and stood beside her at the water's edge. "The truth," he said slowly, "is that nowhere has really felt like home to me since."

She looked up at him. "This forest is our home. I do not wish live in exile for the remainder of my days."

"Neither did I. Neither did your ancestors. But we made better lives for ourselves than we would have had if we'd stayed put." Tentatively, he placed a hand on her thin arm. "And you'll have something I didn't. Your community will stay intact."

Cerian smiled. "Our community, Caliburn. You are Keltoi too."

* * *

"Horus wants to re-employ the Keltoi."

"You mean re-enslave."

Pinker shrugged. "Semantics."

Hart looked at Carter enquiringly. "Why would he want to do that? Doesn't he have enough of his own?"

"The other Goa'uld do..." Sam thought, looking around the plain room to which she and Hart had been brought, where Pinker had been waiting for them. They had been escorted from their cell by two of the Jaffa, the same two who had brought them there in the first place. The ship, although small, felt empty, and Carter had only seen four different Jaffa, and Horus.

Could it be that the Goa'uld didn't have enough slaves of its own?

"What did you tell it?" she asked Pinker.

"Nothing. I promise. I may have dangled the possibility in front of it- "

"You what-?"

Pinker held up a hand, cutting off Hart before the tirade got started. "But I didn't say anything." He looked peeved. "I found out more than I gave away, which is more than you managed with your name-rank-and-number tosh."

"So what happens now?"

Pinker looked helpless. "That I don't know."

//Please, do not be anxious//

Horus appeared, flanked by two of the ever-present Jaffa. If there were only four, thought Sam, the other two would probably be guarding the prisoners outside. So it was three to three in here. Surely those were manageable odds?

But the Jaffa were armed, and Horus was wearing the metal mesh over his tiny right hand.

The Goa'uld crossed to a wall covered with hieroglyphs and stood up high on tip toes to reach a particular symbol. There was something sickly comic about the action. Sam stepped back as three solid plinths began to rise out of the floor at their feet.

She didn't like where this was heading at all.

//My skills with the flesh are renowned among my kind// explained the child. //Another would have had to take a fresh host had its eyes been taken from it, but I liked this form, and so I crafted these for myself. They are pretty, do you not think?//

"To die for," muttered Hart.

//And so, to protect you, I now offer you the opportunity to pledge allegiance to me, and carry the larva//

"Even if we wanted to, we couldn't," said Carter. "We're not Jaffa. We don't have the pouches."

Horus turned, and she saw that he was holding a long thin object, which tapered at one end, and which gleamed and shone in the light. It was a knife.

//That can be remedied//

* * *

"Rhirid, speak," said Cerian.

The young Keltoi man cleared his throat and glanced nervously around the faces of his audience. He looked terrified. For a moment, Jack remembered that he was the alien here, with a strange face and stranger manners.

"I saw where the flying thing went."

"Where?"

Rhirid looked to Cerian for support, and she nodded, face stern. He continued: "It went through the pass between the hills. Then it vanished."

Jack suppressed a sigh. Well, it was better than nothing. He looked at Caliburn, who appeared similarly disappointed. "What kind of range have those things got?" asked the Major.

"Horus' base could be on the other side of the planet. Or in orbit."

"Terrific."

"But it's probably close," put in Daniel optimistically. "I mean, if Horus wants the Keltoi, he's going to stay near them, right?"

Cerian looked at him, then at Jack and Caliburn. "Five seasons ago, there were great fires in the forest. There are some areas, just beyond the pass, which are still clear. The council had discussed beginning a new settlement there at one time. It is not more than a morning's walk."

"All right." O'Neill nodded. This was more like it. "Show us on the map."

The healer took the twig he offered her, and scratched a circle in to the sandy soil. It formed the third point of a triangle whose other vertices were the village and the Stones. An assortment of small rocks and leaves marked the positions of various landmarks on the terrain.

"Okay," said Jack. "We have three objectives. Firstly, we have to evacuate the Keltoi to the Stones in time for our rendezvous with SGC in thirteen hours. Secondly, we have to get our people back from Horus and hopefully keep him occupied while the village makes a break for it. And thirdly we need to find a replacement for the late Junior."

"The late...?" said Doyle, not following. Then his expression cleared. "Oh."

"The Major and I, in a demonstration of transatlantic co-operation which would make our respective governments weep with pride, have worked out a strategy."

Caliburn picked up. "Sheldrick and Doyle, you're co-ordinating the evacuation. Your job is to get everyone in the village from here to the circle where we arrived. Whatever way you want to do it, Cerian will make it happen." The healer nodded.

"While myself and Major Caliburn will deal with items two and three on the to-do list," completed Jack.

"What about me?" asked Daniel.

"You're with Sheldrick and Doyle," said O'Neill.

"Jack, I..."

Jack cut him off. "Don't say it. You know I can't."

For a second, O'Neill thought that he was going to put up a fight: it was so damn difficult to tell what was going through his head without being able to see his eyes. The younger man had a face which reflected his inner life with a degree of accuracy which was nothing short of astonishing. Jack had very quickly learned to interpret the steady parade of emotions which quarrelled for dominance over his features at any given moment. But now... He thought that Daniel must understand why he couldn't come with them to retrieve Carter and the others, and he thought that he was coping with his current situation well. But right now, Jack was feeling a little blind himself, around Daniel.

"Yeah," said Daniel. "I see."

And Jack didn't know what to make of that response.

* * *

Held firmly to the plinth- butcher's table was nearer the mark, she thought grimly- Sam struggled against the forcefield which held her in place. Or perhaps it wasn't a forcefield. There was no blue glow, no rippling effect this time. She simply couldn't move, pinned to the stone slab beneath her back as surely as if she was bound with straps. Her legs and arms felt like lead, and it was an effort to breathe.

Gravity, she thought dimly. The Goa'uld were able to generate gravity on their ships. Horus had simply turned up the gain.

Pinker was to her left, Hart to her right. The Jaffa had assumed a position by the single exit, although their presence was now almost superfluous: not one of the prisoners posed any threat to the Goa'uld.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Horus standing over Hart, wielding the knife. Even for the small boy's form which the creature inhabited, it was an easy reach: the plinths on which they lay were only a foot or so above the floor.

Horus leaned over the slab and ripped Hart's shirt open, exposing his chest and stomach. He nodded to himself, and began to cut.

Sam saw Hart's eye's spring open, but he made no sound. Horus smiled down at him.

//The instrument anaesthetises as it cuts. There is no pain. I am not cruel//

The incisions made, Horus retracted the blade and turned away. Sam saw Hart take a succession of panting, quick breaths. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the high ceiling with dread and terror.

He turned his head towards Sam.

Then, with a huge effort, he moved his hand and she saw that he was holding a fistful of Daron's snakesbane.

What-? She mouthed at him.

Slowly, carefully, Hart slid his arm up the slab. The fierce gravity pinning him down would make it impossible to go about the task any other way.

Sam stared at him, not understanding what he was trying to do. Daron's herbs would be useless unless the Goa'uld ingested them, and Sam could not see how Hart intended to trick or force Horus into doing that. Unless he planned to throw the snakesbane in the child's face, but the high gravity field would ruin that ploy's effectiveness...

Then she saw that Hart's fist was at his mouth. And suddenly Sam understood what he intended.

No. Don't.

He saw her frantic, silent pleading, and nodded. He was smiling. He knew exactly what he was doing, she realised, and he was sure.

He sucked the contents of the package in his mouth, and swallowed.

Horus turned around. He was holding a transparent canister, in which floated a pale pink, puckered object about the size of a man's fist.

//This is my own creation// said the Goa'uld. //I am proud of it. It is not ideal, of course, but it serves quite admirably to convert the cavity below the diaphragm to a suitable storage chamber. The insertion will feel strange, but it will soon be over//

His small hands opened the jar, and removed the false pouch. Once out of the fluid's support, it immediately began to deflate and collapse. Quickly, Horus slipped his child's hands inside it, and then forced both fists into the wound in Hart's belly.

The Sergeant gave a muffled cry, which he swiftly choked back.

"Oh my God," whispered Pinker. He might not be able to see what was going on, but he could certainly hear it. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

//And now you are ready//

The boy turned away once more, and this time when he came back into Sam's field of vision, he was holding a larva which twisted and writhed in his hands. He must have a supply, she thought: he must intend to capture the Keltoi and implant as many of them as possible.

His tiny fist disappeared into Hart's new pouch.

//It is done. Welcome to my service, Jaffa//

Hart screamed.

The noise was a screech of agony, of pain far in excess of what the human body was capable of bearing. If Sam had been able to, she would have covered her ears, but the gravity which held her kept even that small relief from her. She watched, helpless but fascinated, as Hart shook and trembled and yelled, the hands at his sides making tiny clutching movements at his stomach.

//It will ease// said Horus. //It will ease//

Hart's back arched. He screamed again.

And then he died.

His body collapsed back down on to the table, lifeless and still. Sam stared, while Horus stood still in disbelief. From the slab on her other side Carter heard Pinker's frantic repeated invocations of the deity.

Faint flecks of green sat at the edge of Hart's mouth, remnants of the herb which he had not been able to ingest.

Horus extended a finger and touched them.

//The bane// He shook his head, causing his long plait to bounce off his narrow shoulders. //Fool. Fool//

And then he disappeared from sight, and Sam heard childish footsteps pattering across the stone floor. When Horus' malignant, furious boyish face hovered into sight above her, she was not surprised.

//And you?// he hissed. //Did you take the herb also?//

Sam opened her mouth, but the gravity field was such that she could not garner up enough air in her lungs to force out any words. "...'ess..." she said, as clearly as she could.

//What?//

"...ess..."

The child waved a hand over her, and suddenly the crushing pressure had eased: she no longer felt as if she was carved from lead, just very, very tired. But she could speak.

"I took it too. Put one of those things in me and I'll die like Hart."

//I am gracious. I am forgiving// Horus' eyes narrowed. //But you try me//

"Good," whispered Sam. It took nearly all the strength she had left to force the word out.

//You are strong, and you have fire in your spirit. You would make a fine Jaffa. Therefore I will allow you one more chance. You will be returned to the cell. When the snakesbane has passed from your blood, I will ask you again if you would serve me. You will accept. Or you will die. I will allow you the choice//

The gravity field dissipated entirely, and Sam was pulled to her feet by the Horus Guards. She felt so weak that she could barely keep upright unaided. And Hart was dead.

His body lay on the slab beside hers, the slits in the stomach distended and raw. The larva was dead also: its ugly maw poked out of his flesh- it had died even as it attempted to crawl out the toxic environment which his body, fortified with the Keltoi herb, had become.

"Wait," said Pinker, "Wait, please."

His voice was a breathy susurration, barely audible. Horus paused, then made a similar gesture over his table. Pinker gasped in relief as the field lifted, and took a series of long, deep breaths.

"I didn't..." he said when he was able to speak: "I didn't take any. Of the herb. And I don't want to die."

"Pinker, don't," said Sam. "You're making a terrible mistake."

"Do it," he told Horus. "I'll serve you."

"It's slavery!" Carter cried, and one of the Jaffa beside her slapped her, hard. She reeled, and nearly passed out as they began to drag her from the room.

//It is service// she heard Horus say.

Then she did lose consciousness.

**Five**

"O'Neill!"

Jack dodged out of the way of a familiar looking plant whose red and white speckled buds bulged obscenely, and stopped walking long enough for Caliburn to catch up with him. Even more useful than the Keltoi's knowledge of the local terrain had been their knowledge of the forest's breathtakingly wide variety of dangerous or toxic plant life. Without the careful briefing Cerian had given them before they left the ruins of the village, Jack doubted either himself or the Major would have completed the journey through the jungle without sustaining injuries as serious as Daniel's. Even with Cerian's guidance, however, some collateral damage had been inevitable, and Jack rubbed at the deep red acid burns which were already developing on the back of his hands following a close encounter with a particularly hostile example of the native vegetation. He would be very glad to get back home, to a place where gardening wasn't a potentially fatal pastime.

O'Neill accepted the water bottle the Major offered him with gratitude, and drank. The sun was not yet low in the sky. They were making good time, and should arrive at the place Cerian had spoken of within a few more hours.

He handed the canteen back to Caliburn. "Thanks."

Rhys nodded and drank himself. Then he returned the bottle to the pack he was carrying. "We need to decide what we're going to do if they are there," he said.

O'Neill nodded. "Yeah."

Caliburn hesitated. Then he said: "If Horus is the threat, the cleanest way to do this would be to take him out."

"Yeah," said O'Neill again. He had been thinking much the same thing.

"So?" prompted the Major.

Jack looked at him. "So?"

"You're the Goa'uld expert. This thing is a child with a snake inside it. Is the host just a shell, or is there a little boy in there too?" He looked at O'Neill. "If we kill Horus, what are we killing?"

Jack made no reply for a long time. There were a lot of things he could have told the Major, he knew. He could have told him about Daniel, watching his wife being taken from him, saying Surely something of the host must survive. He could have told him about Kendra, or even Carter, both hosts who had emerged intact from the experience. He could even have told him about Apophis' host, the temple scribe, the personality which had been marginalised for millennia reasserting itself at the point of death.

But a child. An unformed person. There was no reason to think any of Horus' host remained. And even if there was, the five hundred lives of the Keltoi, as well as Jack's people and Caliburn's men...surely that justified the taking of two lives, one of which was wholly evil.

And one of which was innocent.

Jack wondered, if it came to it, would he be able to pull the trigger. He asked himself the question, and found that he could not answer it. He did not know.

He looked at Caliburn, who was doubtless wondering what the hell was up with him. One of them, thought Jack, would need to be up to the task.

"Nothing of the host survives," he said. "We'll do what we have to."

* * *

"I've lost him!"

The small voice coming from somewhere around the level of Andy's waist was tearful and upset. He felt a tug on his belt, and looked around to see Teleri sniffling miserably. He knelt down so that he was face to face with her. "There, there. What is it, love?"

"I've... I've lost Daniel," she told him, her words somewhat unclear through the sobs. Andy cast an anxious glance around the evacuation party he was leading, and saw that the archaeologist was indeed no longer in its number.

"It's all right, lass," he reassured her. "He's not far off. You stay here and I'll go find him, okay?" The child looked doubtful, so he used the corner of his sleeve to wipe the tears off her small brown face as he smiled at her. "Dry those tears, now. That's right."

Consigning Teleri to the temporary care of one of the Keltoi women, he broke away from the main party and left the trail for the forest beyond. He would have to be careful that he didn't get lost himself... still, the man couldn't have wandered far, and if he had any sense he'd stop dead as soon as he realised he had become separated from the group.

"Dr Jackson?" called Andy. "Dr Jackson!"

"Over here!"

Andy smiled to himself. Well, that had been just about the first thing to have worked out easily for a while. It must be a good omen for the success of the evacuation. "Stay where you are. I'm coming now."

He made Jackson continue to call out, and followed his voice until he found the archaeologist sitting in a hollow on the forest floor, one foot twisted and trapped under a gnarled root system. Andy crouched down beside him, and saw that the laces of one of his shoes had somehow become caught in the undergrowth, and that his unseeing efforts to untangle them had only made the problem worse.

Sheldrick slipped his knife out of its sheath and began to free the tangle. "Soon have you free, Dr Jackson."

"Thanks." The archaeologist put a hand to the bandages at his face, and Andy noted that they were now soiled with a combination of dirt, sweat and- worryingly- a few spots of blood. He took off his backpack and fished out his first aid kit. There were enough injuries among the Keltoi to have used up his meagre supplies twenty times over, but Andy had made sure he kept a roll of sterile gauze in reserve.

"Those dressings need changed again. I'll do it now."

"Shouldn't we get back to the evacuation party?"

"I wouldn't worry, Doctor. They're only about twenty yards away."

"Oh." Jackson held still while Andy loosened the bandages and eased them away from his face. "I thought I'd wandered way off... It's my fault, I should have been holding on to Teleri, but my head hurts and my eyes hurt, and I was thinking about...other things. Next thing I know, I'm out of earshot of everyone. I guess I kind of panicked. And fell over."

"Not to worry," said Sheldrick. He made ready to remove the bandages completely, and frowned. Jackson was sitting in deep shadow, but there was still a lot of natural light filtering through the trees around them. "Keep your eyes tight shut. We don't want to aggravate them."

He slipped the filthy dressings off over the archaeologist's head, and surveyed the damage, thinking that it was bloody fortunate the young man wasn't able to see his reflection. Andy folded up two soft cotton pads and prepared to press them gently into the hollows of his eye sockets.

Jackson opened his eyes.

Quickly, Sheldrick cupped his hands over the younger man's face. "Dr Jackson..."

"I didn't see anything," said Jackson quietly.

"You shouldn't have done that. You're risking..."

"What am I risking?" cut in the other man. "Blindness? I'm already blind, or hadn't you noticed? I've been trying to convince myself that I'm healing under all these wrappings, and I just opened my eyes and I didn't see anything."

 

Hands pressed close to the archaeologist's face, Andy could feel his breathing, fast and sibilant, against his skin. "Come on, lad," he said. "We'll be home soon. You've done so well this far."

"Oh good," said Jackson bitterly. "I'm glad you think so. Because I've been really trying. I've been trying to be positive, to help even when I can't really, to not feel like the fifth wheel I am, to believe everyone when they tell me it's okay and I can hear the lies in their voices- I've been trying so fucking hard." He leaned back, and Andy moved with him, keeping his eyes sealed, safe from the sun's warm rays, so destructive to delicate tissues and damaged nerves. When he spoke again, the hard edge had disappeared from his voice, replaced by tired plaintiveness. "Just tell me how bad it is, please? I'd ask Jack, but he'd just say everything's fine. Which it isn't."

"It's..." Andy hesitated, then sighed. "I'll tell you the truth, son. It doesn't look great right now. But I'm only a field medic; you'll need a specialist when we get back. Daron and Cerian know their stuff. I think you've had the best treatment you could have had, under the circumstances. Other than that, we won't know until we get you home."

Jackson nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then: "You can take your hands away now. I've shut my eyes."

Andy removed his hands- gently, in order not to cause the younger man more pain- and recommenced the renewal of Jackson's dressings. After a moment, he said: "My sister, Carol, she's partially sighted. I was seven, she was four. Dad was doing some DIY in the garage, and she rushed in to show him something. Ran straight into the bench, knocked a whole jar of paint stripper down on to herself. Into her eyes." He began to wind the new strips of clean material around the archaeologist's forehead. "Look, I know it's not platitudes you want, but she does okay. She's married, lives just outside Gateshead. I have a niece and nephew. The point is, there are worse things."

"Yeah," agreed Jackson softly. "There are worse things. Want to hear one of them? I'm married, too. The Goa'uld took my wife. And if I can't see, how can I look for her?"

Andy's fingertips were moist where they had touched the younger man's cheeks. He pretended not to notice, and wiped them dry on his sleeves.

* * *

O'Neill and Caliburn lay flat on their stomachs on the crest of the low hill which overlooked the large clearing below them. Rhys studied the scene carefully, listening closely as the Colonel pointed out the bizarrely shaped ship, the patrol strategy adopted by the bird-helmeted guards and the force field generators creating the triangular pen in which the terrified Keltoi were huddled together.

It reminded Rhys of the sheep dog trials his grandfather had taken him to as a young boy: the trained dogs responded to their master's whistles and calls, using the power of fear and bared teeth to drive the sheep first in one direction and then the next, until the helpless, frightened creatures were herded into the fold, and the gate shut behind them.

"Hemmed in like animals," he observed grimly.

"The Goa'uld never signed up to the Geneva Convention," said O'Neill. "Or anything else for that matter." He frowned. "All those people are Keltoi."

"I noticed." Caliburn shuffled forwards on the fragrant earth. "Only two guards. Where do you think the other two are?"

O'Neill jabbed a thumb in the direction of the pyramid ship. "In there, I guess. With our people and Horus. Now there's a pleasant thought." He looked at Rhys. "There's no point shooting at the Jaffa from this distance. That armour's too good. We'll have to take them out hand to hand."

Rhys looked at him. "Tell me, Colonel, do you enjoy making life difficult for yourself?"

O'Neill grinned. "Gotta have something to get out of bed for in the morning, Major."

* * *

O'Neill flattened himself against the trunk of a tree at the outer edge of the clearing, listening to the footfalls of the patrolling Jaffa guard as they crunched past him over the fire-ravaged ground. Caliburn had taken up a similar hiding place about ten yards off. He caught the Major's eye and nodded.

Cautiously, Jack peered around the curved trunk, estimating the distance between himself and the nearest corner of the corral. The flickering blue light which formed its sides made it difficult to tell exactly what was happening inside the pen, but no one appeared to be seriously hurt. That was good: everyone would be mobile once they were free.

One face, distorted and wavering through the barrier, bobbed up and down. Had he been seen? Damn, thought Jack, the last thing they needed was to be unintentionally given away by one of the people they were trying to help...

He saw a slim hand rise and make a small wave in his direction. Yes, he had been spotted. Who was it? Well, let's see, he thought: dark skin, white hair- who do I know who looks like that? Oh yeah, about five hundred people.

 

The figure moved, and he saw a dark diagonal band crossing its upper body.

Daron?

Jack grinned. Daron. Just the girl. He could rely on her not to betray his presence inadvertently... but a distraction would be really useful right now. Really, really useful. He wondered if the Keltoi were telepathic in the least. Daron, we could really use...

 

Daron threw her head back and screamed, a piercing shriek that brought both the guards running towards the pen.

Jack made a mental note to buy Daron dinner at some point, when her culture advanced to the point of inventing restaurants, and broke cover. Off to his left, he saw Caliburn do the same, and they raced towards the two Jaffa guards, who faced away from them, peering in through the wavering force field, demanding to know what was wrong with the female prisoner at the back.

Caliburn reached his first, and took him out with a single blow to the back of his unprotected head with the butt of his weapon. Jack tried the same tactic with the second guard, but this man was faster, and his hawk's head helmet slid up around his skull before the strike could connect. There was a clang as metal hit metal, and the vibrations carried back up through Jack's arm all the way to his shoulder.

The guard drew back a fist, and made ready to hit him. Jack parried the blow, but he was defending himself from a poor stance, at a bad angle. And now his gun was the wrong way round to use quickly.

The jewelled eyes in the sides of the sharp-beaked head-dress twinkled at Jack maliciously.

And disappeared.

The Jaffa slumped to the ground at Jack's feet, like a punctured inflatable doll. O'Neill looked down, and saw the group of three small entry points in the overlapping plates of the helmet.

"Apparently there's some structural weakness at very close range," said Caliburn.

Jack wasn't sure, but he had a faint suspicion that might have been the Major's hitherto well disguised sense of humour coming to the fore. "We need to disrupt this, ahh, this," he said, making vague motions the direction of the forcefield.

"Agreed." Rhys unclipped a small charge from his belt and threw it to Jack. He took a second one for himself. "Let's try one to a post."

Jack moved as close to the barrier as he could and motioned at Daron to come closer on her side. The field seemed to dampen sound as well, and he had to shout several times before she indicated that she understood. While he and Caliburn set the charges, Jack watched Daron make sure her fellow prisoners moved into the far point of the triangle. O'Neill spun a hand in the air, and, understanding, she made them turn away from him, covering faces and bare flesh.

They had taken all the precautions they could.

"Ready?" he asked Caliburn.

The Major nodded.

"Five second timer, on my mark... Now."

Jack clicked the tiny switch at the back of the charge and retreated, covering his ears with his hands. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

 

The twin charges exploded.

Damn. Two Mississippis out.

Uncovering his ears, Jack looked around in time to see the energy barrier on the near side of the pen flicker and disappear. Daron was among the first to emerge.

"The guards came for your friends," she said, and pointed at the pyramid ship: "They are in there. I saw them go in."

Jack nodded. "Okay. We'll take it from here. Daron, your people are leaving here. It's not safe any more, not now that one Goa'uld has found you."

She looked at him in incomprehension. "But... where shall we go? Where else is there?"

"Believe me, there are plenty of other places," Jack told her: "But we can talk about it later. Take all these people and make sure they get to the Stones, okay? We'll follow you once we've got the others. Do not go back to the village, understand? Straight to the Stones."

"To the Stones," she repeated. "I will." She cast a worried glance in the direction of the pyramid ship: "You will get them out?"

"We will," said Jack.

"Or die trying," added Caliburn.

And that, Jack decided, probably wasn't a joke, of any sort.

**Six**

Getting into the pyramid had been easier than Rhys had thought it would be.

A quick circuit of the outside of the ship- O'Neill assured him it was a ship, however much it looked like an ancient monument- had revealed a section of the outer surface which was slightly different in texture and tone to the area around it, and which was about the height and width of a door. A search of the two Jaffa bodies, at the Colonel's instigation, then showed that one of them wore a deep red jewel, set into a silver-gold holder which twisted around his left hand. Rhys removed it, and when he pressed it against the hollow beside the door, the stone or metal or whatever the hell it was simply melted away in front of them.

They proceeded carefully at first, not wanting to stumble across any more Jaffa, but speeded up when it became plain that the ship was empty, quite deserted. As they passed yet another sphinx statue carved in light coloured stone, Rhys shook his head in bafflement. When he did get home, he was in for the debriefing of his life. So you were inside the alien craft, Major? What was it like?

Well, sir, it was a little like the Egyptian Rooms at the British Museum.

O'Neill held up a hand. "Hear that?"

Rhys nodded, and they ducked behind one of the many functionless pillars which lined the hallway. At the far end of the corridor, the two remaining Jaffa came into sight, supporting between them...

"Shit," whispered O'Neill. "Carter." He looked at Caliburn. "When they get close. Okay?"

Rhys nodded silently.

They waited until the Jaffa had drawn alongside them, and then made their move. There were no complications this time, and the two guards were felled swiftly and easily. Carter, deprived of the support she had been receiving from them, collapsed, and O'Neill caught her, lowering her carefully to the ground. "Carter. C'mon Carter." His face hardened. "What the hell did they do to you?"

"I'm all right." She was conscious, but seemed to be extremely weak. "I'm not injured. I was held under a high gravity field. Pretty crushing experience."

"That's my line," said O'Neill, and grinned at her, obviously relieved. One down, two to go, thought Rhys. He handed O'Neill his canteen, and kept a look out as the Colonel offered Carter the last of the water.

She finished it, then pushed the bottle away. "The Goa'uld is called Horus..."

"Knew that."

"It wants the Keltoi to be its Jaffa."

"Knew that too."

"It wants to..."

"Captain," interrupted O'Neill: "I know explaining things is pretty much why you get up in the morning, but just take it easy for a second, okay?"

"Sir," she said: "We brought it here."

"What?"

"It was looking for the Keltoi... It must have some kind of technology that can sense the wormholes opening. When we opened the wormhole at the Stones in Cornwall, when we used the Gate to follow you, it used that to track them down." Her eyes shut, whether in exhaustion or guilt Rhys could not tell. "We brought it here," she repeated.

O'Neill laid a hand on her shoulder. "Then that's one mistake we won't make again," he said.

"Captain," asked Caliburn: "Where is Horus holding Hart and Pinker?"

With a tremendous effort, Carter opened her eyes, sought and found Rhys' gaze. "Hart is dead."

Oh shit. Fuck, no. No, no, no.

"We could find Horus' sarcophagus," said O'Neill.

Carter shook her head weakly. "Between the cell and the central chamber I've seen most of the ship. I don't think it's here. Look how small this ship is. Probably a landing craft. Bigger ship in orbit."

"How did it happen?" asked Caliburn.

"Horus has a surgical technique for implanting non-Jaffa with the larva. Hart took the herb, the snakesbane. With that much of it in his system, he and the larva both died when Horus tried to implant him." She shut her eyes, and her head dropped. "He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't want to live as a slave."

"And Pinker?"

"Pinker did."

"Oh, I think that's a little unfair."

Rhys turned, and saw what the news of his Sergeant's death had made him overlook. Pinker was advancing towards them, one hand holding a weapon which Rhys could not readily identify, and the other clutched to his stomach, where his open, bloodied shirt hung open to display the fresh cuts in the flesh of his abdomen. He was staggering on his feet, but he was upright, and he looked quite capable of using the gun or whatever it was to deadly effect.

"It's not that I wanted to live as a slave," he said: "It's just that I wanted to live."

//And besides// added Horus from his side, a faint smile playing around those piercing bird's eyes: //It is not slavery. It is service//

* * *

"Daniel Jackson."

Daniel woke with a start, and shifted Teleri's small bulk where she pressed against him, dozing lightly. Then he changed his own position: he had been sitting with his back pressed against one of the Stones which ringed the Circle for too long, and his neck hurt. With one arm cradling the little girl, he reached out with his other hand and found Teal'c's shoulder. The Jaffa had made it- just about- to the Stones, but once there he had collapsed and had all but lost consciousness. He would not be going any further without help.

"I'm right here," said Daniel.

"It is cold."

There were many words Daniel could have used to describe the forest, and cold wasn't one of them. Humid, stifling or close perhaps; cold, no. What Teal'c meant, of course, was that it was he who was cold: but phrasing it in that way would have doubtless sounded too much like a complaint to get past his internal editor. It was typical of the Jaffa, Daniel thought, that even when dying he would not permit himself to gripe. He slipped off his jacket, trying not to disturb the girl sleeping against him. "Here, take my coat."

Working by touch, he laid the jacket over Teal'c, trying not to smother him accidentally by putting it over his face. "How do you feel?"

"I am... very tired."

"Yeah," said Daniel. He kept his voice hushed, not wishing to wake Teleri. "Me too."

"I have a request."

"I'm listening." Not, he thought, that there was much else he could do.

"I wish you to convey a message to my wife and son. Tell them..." He stopped. "Tell them I am sorry for the disgrace I brought upon them. Tell them I am sorry I did not return."

"No," said Daniel. "No. Listen to me. Everything will be..." He broke off, unable to make himself say the words, realising how banal they would sound, both to Teal'c and himself. Jack might have brought it off, with his own particular variety of vehement, tunnel-visioned optimism; Daniel couldn't. Was everything going to be all right? He didn't know, and to insist otherwise felt like a betrayal.

"If it comes to it," he promised, "I'll tell them myself."

"...Thank you." The words were barely more than a breath, and Daniel thought that if he had not been concentrating entirely on listening, he might have missed them.

* * *

Jack looked at the 'zat gun in Pinker's right hand for some time noting how, while the rest of the man was shaking, his fingers weren't. There was a very faint shimmer in the air around the Horus child, and he guessed that the Goa'uld was using an energy shield around itself. Slowly, Jack stepped over Carter's legs, so he was standing in front of her. Rhys straightened up and assumed a position beside him.

"Please put the guns down," instructed Pinker.

Jack turned his weapon around so that he was holding it by the barrel, and carefully set it on to the ground between themselves and the Goa'uld. Rhys did the same.

"So," said O'Neill easily to the child as he stepped backwards again: "I don't think we've had a chance to get acquainted yet. I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill, this is Major Rhys Caliburn. I would have done the introductions before now, except that you were trying to kill us."

The boy smiled. //I am Hor-sa-Isis. I am Hor-nedj-her-itef. I am Hor-pa-khred//

 

Jack smiled in return. "Can we call you Hor for short?"

"O'Neill," said Caliburn warningly, "I really wouldn't antagonise it if I were you."

"Oh, I think it's probably pretty much antagonised already, Major. Aren't you, Hor?"

//I am not antagonised. I am wounded. I have offered the gifts of life; I have offered the joy of service, and I have been rejected. It is hurtful to me//

"That's not how the Keltoi see it," said Caliburn, and Jack could see that the same idea had occurred to the Major as to himself: Pinker was weak, still in great pain from the surgical procedure he had only recently undergone. The longer they could keep Horus talking, the more chance there was that he would lose concentration, fumble the weapon, something, anything. After that, Jack thought, surely they could overcome the child, protective energy shield or no.

//Enough of this// snapped the boy. //If the last of Ra's Jaffa will not serve me, you will// He looked up at Pinker: //Jaffa, subdue them//

Pinker nodded, his face flushed and shiny with sweat. He raised the gun, and fired.

There was a bright blue flash, and Horus fell.

Jack stared. The discharge had been at point blank range, close enough to cause the Goa'uld's shield to feed back on itself. The boy fell to the floor, limp and inert, but still breathing.

Pinker sagged against a pillar, and exhaled slowly.

"Mr Pinker," said Caliburn, his voice coloured with equal measures of surprise and gratitude: "Thank you."

O'Neill began to help Carter to her feet. "We're leaving and taking the Keltoi with us," he said. "We've got about four hours to get to the Stones. It's tight, but we can do it. Can you walk?"

Pinker shook his head. "I'm not coming."

Caliburn took a step towards him. "Don't be ridiculous, man. We'll get you home and..."

"And what?" broke in Pinker angrily. He put his free hand to his stomach and grimaced as he touched the lips of the garish X drawn in his flesh. "Look at me. Look at me. If I go back now, I know what they'll do. They'll rip me open to get a better look at this thing inside me. And I'll die." He looked at O'Neill and Carter. "That's how it works, isn't it? Once Jaffa, always Jaffa."

"We didn't let that happen to Teal'c," said Carter. "It doesn't have to happen to you."

"I don't work for the same people you do," said Pinker bitterly. "I'm not going back to be a freak and a curiosity. I'm not going back to die."

"You can't stay here," said Jack.

"Yes I can. And don't think about trying to force me." Pinker lifted the 'zat gun, just high enough to remind them he still held it. "I'll knock you out and you won't make it back to the Circle." He looked down at the bodies of the two Jaffa guards and the tiny, inert frame of the Goa'uld. "Did you kill the other two?"

O'Neill nodded.

Pinker knelt, a simple motion made more difficult by the pain he was obviously experiencing. He lifted Horus and cradled the boy in his arms. "I'll stay with him."

"And what do you think he'll do when he wakes up and remembers you shot him?"

Pinker smiled bleakly. "Nothing, if he has any sense. He needs me. I'm his last Jaffa. And I need him." He turned and began to walk away from them, along the corridor.

"Pinker," called Jack.

The other man looked back.

"Come with us."

Pinker shook his head. "I'm letting you go, aren't I? Get out of here." The smile, empty and haunted, returned. "It may be the last good thing I ever do."

* * *

They were outside the ship before Jack remembered the third point on the to-do list.

"Larva," he said suddenly, stopping in his tracks and nearly causing Carter, who he was supporting, to fall over: "Dammit, we can't leave without a larva."

Caliburn looked back at the sealed pyramid ship behind them. "Shit."

Carter straightened up between them, and Jack could tell she was beginning to recover from her ordeal. "What about the two Jaffa out here?"

Caliburn shook his head. "They're dead."

"Larvae might not be, yet." She broke away from them, and stumbled across the deserted clearing in the direction of one of the fallen guards. Jack followed her, and found her industriously removing the nearest man's armour, revealing the slit in his belly. She grimaced, shut her eyes and forced her hand deep into his flesh. "I really... really... really don't like this."

Caliburn was pale. "You should try watching yourself."

"I can feel it," reported Carter. "It's still moving. It's alive."

"Okay," said Jack: "Next question: what the hell are we going to put it in?"

"Water bottle," suggested Carter, and Rhys passed over his canteen. But the mouth was too narrow, and it was clear that the squirming larva would not fit through it.

"Can't we just carry it?" asked Caliburn.

Jack shook his head. "They die within minutes in the air. It needs a liquid environment. Preferably inside a Jaffa. But since none of us is suitably equipped, suggested potential alternatives would be appreciated."

There was a brief pause. Then Carter said: "I think I have an idea, sir. But you're not going to like it."

Jack checked his watch. Only three and half hours left to get back to the Stones. "Spit it out, Captain."

Carter looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Uhh... That's kind of the idea..."

* * *

"Daniel. Daniel, you're hurting me."

Daniel started out of numbness, and realised that his gentle patting of Teleri's hair as she lay against his chest had somehow mutated into a harsher, less tender action. He was dimly aware that the little girl had been trying to break him out of his self-absorbed reverie for some time now; he could not remember exactly when he had stopped responding to her, but it could not have been long after Teal'c had fallen silent for the last time. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to..." He reached out with his free hand and felt for Teal'c's wrist, squeezing and pinching a variety of different ways before finally finding the slow, fading beat of the Jaffa's heart. "Teal'c?" he said. "Teal'c?" There was no response, and Daniel guessed that he had slipped into unconsciousness. He supposed he should be grateful that he was still alive.

Teleri shifted in his arms. "Daniel, do you know any stories?"

"Well, I, ahhh..." Well, he thought, yes, a few. A few hundred books' worth of deconstruction and analysis of the folk tales and legends of a dozen ancient cultures. "Yes. Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"Yes." She snuggled closer to him.

Sure, thought Daniel, why not. If nothing else, it would take his mind off the current situation. But what to tell? Egyptian mythology would be tasteless; Sumerian was a little obscure, Inuit too bloody, Greek or Roman perhaps...

"Daniel," the child prompted.

He thought rapidly, and made decision. "Okay," he began: "Once upon a time, there were three bears. They all lived in a house in a forest..."

"What's a bear?"

"Well, it's a..."

"Teleri!"

"Mama!"

The little girl leapt up from his arms, and Daniel heard the sounds of a joyful reunion somewhere close by. There were more noises- the sounds of a group of newcomers emerging from the forest.

"Jack?" he called.

"He stayed behind," said a voice beside him. "The Goa'uld took your other friends. He said he would follow us."

"Daron?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "How is Teal'c?"

"He lost consciousness a little while ago," he told her. "I can't wake him."

He heard the rustle of her clothing as she leaned past him. "It is the sleep deeper than sleep. There is nothing more we can do, except wait."

Which was just fine, thought Daniel bitterly. He was becoming exceptionally good at waiting.

**Seven**

The pain was excruciating.

Jack stopped, doubled over, and cried out as another bolt of searing heat shot through his stomach. He felt as if he was being slowly eviscerated. An intense feeling of nausea swept over him, and he fought the urge to vomit. That would not be a good thing to do right now.

He felt a hand support him, and looked up to see Carter's face, pale and concerned, float into focus next to Caliburn's. The Captain looked like death warmed over, but she was walking unaided now.

Which was more than Jack could say for himself.

He attempted to grin at her, but he suspected that the result probably looked more like a rictus on his face. "I'm never... eating sushi... again."

It wasn't much of a joke; nevertheless, he was rewarded by the briefest of smiles from Carter. "How do you feel, sir?"

Jack tried to get up, but the pain was like a staple in his side, folding him in two and making ordinary movement impossible. "Like an apple... with a maggot inside it."

"Can you keep going?" asked Rhys.

"...Don't think so."

The Major hooked one of Jack's arms over his own shoulder, and Jack accepted the support gratefully. They began to move forwards again.

"How long..." O'Neill asked Carter: "How long... in stomach acid...d'y'think?"

"We should make it to the Stones in about two hours," she told him. "So, ahh, a bit more than two hours."

"...Scientific opinion...?"

"Sheer bloody mindedness," said Caliburn. "Come on."

They kept moving.

* * *

"What was that?"

Andy dropped down on to the ground beside Jackson, and laid a hand on his arm to alert the archaeologist to his presence. "That noise was the wormhole opening," he said. "Your people back home did the job. We're going to start moving the Keltoi out." Behind him, Sheldrick could hear Doyle coaxing and cajoling the first group of refugees towards the swirling maelstrom of light and sound which had appeared at the centre of the circle. Andy could detect a certain undercurrent of agitation in the hum of Keltoi voices coming from the crowd, but less than he might have expected, given that Doyle was asking for volunteers to jump into a blue tunnel to nothing in the ground. The tribe's oral history had recorded this place as their origin and their refuge, and that belief was soothing them more than any number of reassurances from either himself or the Corporal could.

Andy lifted Teal'c's arm and felt for his pulse. The dull throb, when he finally succeeded in locating it, was faint and irregular. The Jaffa's eyes were open but glassy, and he seemed to be in some kind of waking coma. "I want to send your friend through in the first party."

"No," said Jackson.

"Doctor," said Andy quietly: "There's nothing more I can do for him here. And your people must know ten times more about his physiology than I do. He stands a better chance..."

"He stands a better chance here," insisted the archaeologist. "He needs a larva. And there aren't any on that side of the wormhole. So he's staying here until Jack and Sam and the others get back and bring him one, and I'm staying with him."

Andy fought down a sigh. "So I suppose trying to get you to go back now would be a waste of breath too?"

"Tell you what, Lieutenant: I'll go when you go."

Sheldrick was about to muster an argument, then saw the determination in the younger man's half-hidden expression, and thought better of it. "Right you are then, lad," he said, and went to help Doyle.

* * *

//Jaffa? Jaffa!//

The Horus Child blinked, opening its speckled hawk's eyes and struggling to sit up.

"They're gone," Pinker told it from his seated position on the floor against the far wall. "They're dead."

The boy put a hand to his head, and emitted a high pitched, childish moan. Then he looked up, straight at Pinker, with a dull glare of malevolence. //You betrayed me// Horus lifted his hand, unfurling the fist like a talon, revealing the focal node of the weapon he wore.

"Oh that's clever," said Pinker with weary disgust. "Kill me too. Then you'll have no Jaffa at all."

//I cannot trust you//

"Of course you can trust me. I'm one of your incubators now. I can't go home and I can't stay here. So all I have left is to go with you. I'm the most loyal servant you've ever had, Horus."

The boy smiled. //Jaffa...// he began.

"No," interrupted Pinker, holding up a hand. "Not Jaffa. Not servant. My name is Stephen." His voice became harsh: "I may need you but you need me as well. I'm all you've got. I will give you service, but on my terms."

Horus hesitated, his thin, child's arm still extended towards Pinker in an attitude of hostility. Then he closed his fist, turned his hand over, and reached towards Pinker in a gesture of welcome. //Stephen// he said, //You are my First Prime, my aid and my help. We will stand together against my enemies, and you will be blessed as I ascend to greatness once more//

Pinker crawled towards the child, and took hold of the offered hand. So, he thought, this is how deals with the Devil get made.

//Do you know why I take the form of a child, Stephen?//

Pinker shook his head. "Why?"

//Because they are pure. There are no distractions, no interruptions to my thoughts. The host's mind is easily erased, and there are no lusts of the flesh to control, as with the adults. The physical weakness is a privation, but it is worth it. It permits me to focus entirely on my goals. You will discover just how focused I can be//

Pinker nodded, and released the boy's hand. He knew nothing of the mechanics of the relationship between the alien and its host, but he did not doubt what the Goa'uld said. No, his doubts arose elsewhere. A child might be pure, but it was also half-formed. The brain Horus had adopted as its home was not mature, and presumably subject to the same lack of development as that of a normal child. Horus might believe itself entirely in control of the boy and his thoughts, but Pinker wondered how much of a child's raw savagery and naivete had been transferred to the Goa'uld. Horus had probably been a youth for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to be otherwise.

He sat back, and grimaced as a twisting, writhing sensation began somewhere below his stomach, caused by the thing within him turning and squirming. He placed a hand over the bright, jagged-edged slit in his belly in an effort to quell the nausea. It didn't help.

//We will know greatness, you and I// promised Horus.

Pinker smiled, and felt sick.

* * *

The crashing noises emanating from somewhere beyond the wall of foliage which ringed the circle of stones caught Sheldrick by surprise, and he raised his gun into the firing position, wary of some last minute attack.

Then he lowered it, grinning widely in relief. "Major!"

Caliburn eased O'Neill on to the ground as Carter appeared out of the vegetation behind them. He looked around the nearly empty circle, and the open wormhole at its centre. "Did Daron and the others get here?"

"Yes, sir. The whole population's been moved out." Andy's hands moved over O'Neill's stomach, searching for the bullet wound he knew must be there, judging from the way the man was clawing at his abdomen and groaning. But he couldn't see any signs of bleeding. "What happened to the Colonel?"

"We brought a larva back for Teal'c," explained Carter, and for a second Andy didn't see the relevance of the remark. Then he understood, and together with Caliburn, they helped O'Neill to his feet once more and dragged him across the circle, to the spot where Jackson and Cerian were waiting by the comatose Jaffa.

The archaeologist couldn't see what was happening, but he must have heard them approaching, because he raised his head at the Colonel's stifled cries. "Jack? Are you okay?"

"...Oh yeah. Peachy..."

"It's all right, Daniel," said Carter, and Andy saw the younger man's expression beam under the bandages as he recognised her voice. "We found a larva but we didn't have any way to carry it. We figured stomach acid would take longer to kill it than fresh air."

"Stomach acid?" repeated Jackson. "Oh, God, Jack, you didn't..."

O'Neill interrupted him by gagging and pitching forward. Andy and Caliburn held him up while he retched into the dirt. On the second or third heave, one end of the larva became visible, poking out from between his lips. Cerian caught it between her thumb and forefinger, and pulled it out.

"Is it still alive?"

"I do not know..."

"Wait, it's moving."

"Get it into him. Now."

Cerian carried the larva to Teal'c's side, and Andy and Carter knelt on either side of him, each gently holding open one flap of the pouch in his stomach. O'Neill rolled over the in dirt behind them, and gasped.

"Ease it in," said Carter. "Careful now."

"It's okay," said O'Neill faintly. "I'm all right."

"I have it," said Cerian.

"I'm just about all right."

"Nearly there," said Andy.

"Thank you for asking."

And the larva disappeared.

"Your concern is touching," said O'Neill, and passed out.

Caliburn stood up, and looked down at the unconscious Jaffa. He could see no change or improvement in the man's condition. "Is he going to be all right now?"

Carter sat back on her heels, her exhaustion suddenly apparent. "I don't know. We tried."

Caliburn nodded. Andy looked up at him, and realised something for the first time. "Major, where are Hart and Pinker?"

"Pinker's not coming back with us," said Caliburn. "Sergeant Hart is dead."

Black in the corner pocket, thought Andy. Play the predictions game. Everything will work out perfectly. Or else not.

 

He nodded, wanting to know how it had happened, but able to tell from the grey expression on Caliburn's face that this was not the time, or the place.

The Major motioned towards the open wormhole. "Come on, people. Let's go home."

* * *

Rhys nearly fell over as he stepped forward out of the wormhole: the effect of falling feet first into the event horizon but emerging on the other side standing was more than sufficient to knock his sense of balance out of kilter. Instinctively, he moved down the ramp in front of him, conscious that the others were somewhere close behind.

"Major Caliburn!"

Doyle was helping an injured Keltoi man into a wheelchair which a medical orderly was making ready to push away. The concrete-walled vault in which he found himself was crowded, but there were nowhere near five hundred people in it. As Rhys watched, three men in US Air Force uniforms shepherded a group of twenty or thirty Keltoi out of the vault. Rhys nodded, impressed. There was apparently a system in place for this kind of contingency, and it was a good one.

There was a noise something like a squelch from behind him, and he turned around just as Sheldrick and Cerian emerged from the wormhole, bearing O'Neill between them, closely followed by Jackson and Carter, who were supporting Teal'c.

"Are you the last?" he heard a man's voice ask.

Carter nodded, and allowed Teal'c to sink down on to the ramp. The Colonel, just about conscious again, collapsed beside him, while Jackson felt around for the low railing at the side of the gangway.

Rhys stared at the thing at the top of the ramp.

"My God," he said. "That's a Stargate?"

"It is," confirmed the same voice which had spoken before. Rhys turned again, and found himself facing a shorter, somewhat older man. "General George Hammond. Welcome to the SGC."

"Major Rhys Caliburn. A pleasure to be here, General."

Hammond nodded, and looked up to the thick blast windows set into the wall on one side of the vault. "Close the iris."

"My God," said Rhys again. When the shield had closed, the system of interwoven metal plates sliding over one another to seal the Gate completely, Rhys looked at the ramp, and saw O'Neill grinning at his expression.

"Whaddya think, Major?"

"I think it's..." Caliburn hesitated, searching for the apt word: "...cool. Very cool indeed."

O'Neill kept grinning.

Hammond's expression, on the other hand, was somewhat more stern.

"Perhaps, Colonel, you would like to explain how you get sent to England to observe a scientific phenomenon, and arrive home four days later through the Gate and with a small community in tow?"

"Well, we..." The Colonel stopped. "We sorta..." He broke off again. "Y'know what? I'm a little flaked out. Fill him in, Major, will ya?" And he lost consciousness again.

"Caliburn," said Cerian anxiously.

"It's all right," he reassured her: "You'll be safe now. Ahh, General Hammond, may I present Cerian. She's in charge of these people."

The General smiled, and addressed the Keltoi healer with an old-fashioned respectfulness which Rhys had thought had all but died out. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Cerian." He looked in the direction of O'Neill, Carter, Jackson and Teal'c, who were ranged along the gridded ramp which led up to the Gate, displaying various levels of consciousness. "Since it doesn't appear that I'll be getting a full explanation from any member of SG-1 in the near future, may I suggest that we remove ourselves to my office? Major, ma'am?"

Rhys nodded and, gently taking Cerian by the arm, followed the General out of the Gate Room.

**Eight**

  
_Monday August 23_  
"No spicy foods," said Dr Frasier, handing Jack the list she had just completed printing out: "No acidic foods. No fried foods. No fruit. No dairy products, except milk. No carbonated drinks, no tea or coffee, no alcohol. No red meat."

Jack scanned the list with increasing despondency. "What's left?"

"Bread. Plain pasta. Steamed white fish and vegetables."

"Yum."

Frasier raised an eyebrow. "I know it's boring, but if you don't want your stomach lining to resemble raw hamburger for the rest of your life, I suggest you keep to it for the immediate future." She leaned forward, across the desk: "And don't go eating any more Goa'uld."

Right, thought Jack glumly, like he needed to be told.

The SGC infirmary, after one of the most hectic periods of activity it had seen, was quiet once again, with the result that the Doctor had more time to devote to O'Neill's newly developed stomach ulcer problems. The Keltoi population, after receiving initial medical treatment on the base, had been moved to a wing of the military hospital at Fort Carson, along with Daniel, who was in a specialist unit at the same location.

"How'd the operation go?" Jack asked.

"I spoke to the surgeon this morning. It's early yet, but he thinks Daniel should keep his sight."

Jack nodded. "Good." Good didn't even begin to cover it, but it was the best word he could think of, for the moment.

"Whatever was in the poultices the Keltoi put on his eyes, the damage caused by the acid burns was much less severe than it might have been." Frasier sat back and sipped her coffee. "He's very lucky he's not blind."

Jack grinned. "Blind is relative. I've seen him have lengthy conversations with fire extinguishers when he's not wearing his glasses."

Frasier returned his smile, but concern underlay her features, and Jack knew why it was there. Teal'c had been half-dead when they returned, while himself, Carter and Daniel had scarcely looked better. Frasier was a military doctor, and she did her job with efficiency and detachment, but she was also a friend, and friends suffered when the people they cared about found new ways to damage themselves. "You were all very lucky this time," she said. "Very lucky."

"Yeah," said Jack. "I know." He cast a glance through the connecting window in the wall of Frasier's office. "Is Teal'c awake?"

"He was when I checked on him."

O'Neill excused himself and wandered out into the ward, still holding the depressingly long list of forbidden foods the Doctor had given him. As he sat down by Teal'c's bedside, the Jaffa's eyes opened dozily. "You look about as sharp as I feel," Jack told him. "How's Junior Mark Three?"

"My body has accepted the new larva."

"Well, good. Now try to look after this one. They're pretty damn difficult to come by."

"O'Neill..."

Jack cut him off. "If that's going to be an apology, I don't want to hear it. You have the right to be free. I'm only sorry it didn't work."

"If I could choose to be otherwise," said the Jaffa slowly, "I would. But in the meantime I have... sufficient freedom." The conversation was tiring him, and his eyes began to drift shut.

"I always thought freedom was an all or nothing thing," said Jack softly. But Teal'c was already asleep.

* * *

"Daniel!"

Daniel attempted to brace himself for the collision he knew was coming, but without sight he was unable to prepare fully for the sudden impact of Keltoi child into his open arms. He lost his balance and fell backwards, a peal of excited girlish giggles ringing right next to his ears.

"Owww, Teleri. Watch it, I'm bruised."

She clambered off him, and when she next spoke he could hear the pout in her voice. "Is it true? That you don't need my eyes now?"

He reached out and felt her slip her small hands into his own. He lifted her arms until her fingers rested against the fresh set of bandages around his eyes. The last set he would need. "No, I still do. But I'll have my own eyes back again soon."

"My eyes were just as good," she sulked.

"Yes they were," he told her solemnly. "And I was grateful for them." She would never really understand how grateful.

"The lass is just fishing for compliments, y'know."

Daniel grinned at the Newcastle accented voice which floated down to him from somewhere above. He stood up. "Andy?"

"Aye. Teleri was asking after you. When she heard I was coming to say goodbye, nothing would please her but to come too."

"You're leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning," said Andy. "Back to a civilised country, with good pubs and real sports, where you can get a decent cup of tea."

Daniel grinned. "On behalf of my nation, I'm wounded, Lieutenant. Is Corporal Doyle here?"

Andy chuckled. "Oh, there's no rush to talk to him. He's not going anywhere."

"Excuse me?"

"He's only gone and got himself a job. They're putting him on one of your SG teams."

"How?"

"Your General asked him, and he said yes. The unit's given him an official secondment. He's right chuffed."

Daniel wasn't entirely sure what right chuffed meant, but he assumed it was a desirable mental state. "Andy, I'm sure if you wanted to stay on, we could..."

Sheldrick broke in before he could finish. "I got asked too. I said no. Exploring's well enough, but I'm a soldier by profession. I wouldn't want to do that too often."

"I guess it's not everyone's cup of badly-made tea." Daniel held out a hand, and after a moment felt it grasped and shaken firmly. "Thank you. For everything."

"Aye, well," said Sheldrick. "Any time, lad. When do those bandages come off?"

"In about a week. Then it's dark glasses and no going outside for at least two months. But the surgeon thinks I could be back at work by the end of October."

"So you get to keep looking," said Andy.

"Yes," replied Daniel quietly. "I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't."

* * *

The valley was wide and fertile, and a silver-blue river gushed and splashed through its heart. A stiff, cool breeze blew- it was the beginning of spring on P4S-657, and there was still an edge of bitter winter in the air. Clouds, grey and solid, rolled across the sky above. Lieutenant Colonel Murphy had declared the place desolate when he had led the three other members of SG-6 as well as Cerian and Caliburn out of the Gate which stood at the far end of the valley. Rhys begged to differ. This was no paradise, but it was a good land, a land that could be built on and farmed. A land that could become home. It reminded him more than a little of Snowdonia and the valleys where he had grown up.

Beside him, Cerian shivered, even under the thick jacket which had been provided for her, and Rhys recalled that she had lived her entire life in the jungle's suffocating heat. She had never, until now, known cold. "What do you think?" he asked.

"It is..." She hesitated. "It is not the forest."

"Nowhere is going to be the forest," he reminded her gently.

"Yes. I know."

"Besides, that place was brutal. There are no fever trees here, no poisonous flowers. Your children will thank you for bringing them here."

She smiled. "It is just that this is all... so very new to me. I have spent my life choosing between one herb and another. I never thought I would have to choose between worlds."

He touched her shoulder. "You'll make the right decision."

"And the choice after that? And the one after that again?" She shook her head. "I am a healer, Caliburn, not a leader. I do not desire this responsibility."

"The best leaders are usually the ones who don't want the job."

She looked at him. "I have spoken with the remaining members of the council. They are of a mind with me. We are like children, stepping beyond the village gates for the first time. We need a guide, one who knows the ways of other worlds."

Rhys blinked. "Cerian," he said: "What you're asking..."

"The best leaders are those who do not wish it," she chided him.

He shook his head. "I am honoured, but..."

"You are Keltoi," she said. "At least say you will think on it."

"Yes," said Rhys, unconsciously adopting her mode of speech, "I'll think on it."

* * *

"Daron."

The Keltoi woman was standing on a small bridge in the Japanese garden which had been constructed in the grounds of the hospital at Fort Carson for the benefit of recovering patients. Daron had not been injured, but in the absence of sufficiently sized alternatives, the entire Keltoi population was being temporarily housed in one of the facility's wings.

Daron looked up as Sam joined her on the bridge over the shallow coi pond, and smiled, although Carter could see that her eyes were red and tired. Sam leaned on the bridge's wooden rails beside Daron, and peered over with her into the limpid water below. Twin reflections stared back up at them, broken from time to time as fish came to the surface to gobble at crumbs of food.

"I like it here," said Daron.

Sam wasn't sure what she meant. "Our world?"

"Oh yes. But here especially." Daron gestured around the garden, taking in the silent order of shrubs and raked gravel. "It is... ordered. There was never order in the forest."

"Cerian says you've been spending a lot of time here."

Daron nodded.

Sam took a breath. "Daron, I wanted to tell you about Derek Hart."

The Keltoi woman shook her head, a gentle motion which was echoed by the image in the pool beneath them. "Cerian says it is foolish to mourn for one I did not know."

"Well, Cerian's not right all the time." Sam placed her hand softly over Daron's where it rested on the rail. "He made a choice between living as a slave and dying free. He understood what freedom means to your people."

Daron nodded. "It is a fine thing to be free," she said quietly. Then she lifted her head and looked at Sam, with eyes which were far older now than when Carter had met her first. "But I think that if I could choose, I would have him at my side now, and a Goa'uld within him."

She began to cry, and Sam held her and murmured comforting words to her as they stood together on the bridge over the pool in the tidy Japanese garden.

* * *

The knock at the door of his temporary quarters within Cheyenne Mountain came just as Rhys was folding one of the Keltoi homespun tunics which Cerian had given to him earlier that day. He was holding it tucked under his chin, folding the sleeves inwards, as O'Neill entered. Rhys looked up to find the Colonel appraising him with a critical eye.

"Oh yes, it's definitely you. I'm told off-beige is the colour this season."

Rhys shrugged. "I'm going to look out of place no matter what, but I might as well try to blend in however I can."

O'Neill nodded, and deposited the bag he was carrying on the bed. "What's this?" asked Rhys.

"A few essentials. I asked Daniel for a list of the ten things he missed most while he was away. Then I ignored it and got you these instead." He rolled his eyes. "Daniel's list included things like dictionaries."

Rhys opened the hold-all and rummaged around inside it. He lifted out a rectangular black object, and looked at O'Neill doubtfully. "Walkman?"

"With headphones and rechargeable solar batteries. It has a radio too. You might even be able to get the BBC Off-World Service."

Rhys closed the bag. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." O'Neill sat down on the end of the bed. "You know, you'll be on your own once the last party goes through. If the Goa'uld really can detect Gate activity and trace it, the Keltoi will be safer if they go incommunicado for a while."

"The General explained."

"You're sure about this?"

Rhys nodded. "It's a matter of kinship." He set the tunic to one side and took the chair opposite Jack. "They've asked for my help. I can't walk away knowing they might still be in danger, that that child-thing could still be looking for them." He shook his head. "The Goa'uld are one hell of an adversary, Colonel."

Jack stood up. "Yes," he agreed, "but they can't pull together when it counts. Good night, Major."

"Good night, Colonel."

Rhys waited until the door had closed behind him. He lifted the little black walkman and flicked it on, popping the miniature 'phones into his ears. Then he went on packing for the journey ahead.

**Epilogue**

The night was still and cool. It usually was at this time of year.

Even in summer, Colorado's elevation ensured that warm sunny days faded into chilly nights. Now the summer was nearly over, and Jack could feel the first sharp bite of cold in the air.

He shifted his position on the garage roof, searching for a warmer spot on the asphalt. The roof had absorbed a lot of heat from the sun's rays during the day, and was still comfortably warm.

Next to him, the telescope sat on its tripod, lens cap dangling at the end of a long cord. He had not realised until after he had climbed on to the roof and set up the instrument that tonight he didn't want to look at anything specific. He just wanted to look.

He scanned the heavens, his gaze falling naturally on the most familiar shape in the northern sky. Jack had pointed out Ursa Major's six bright stars to Caliburn. The Welshman thought of the constellation as a plough; to O'Neill, it was the Big Dipper, the sky's ladle. Its smaller relative, the Little Dipper, hung nearby. He looked further into the night, and saw the age-old, familiar shapes. There was Orion the hunter, Gemini the twins, Hercules the legendary hero. Leo, the lion, was setting and partially hidden.

He reached out a hand and patted one leg of the telescope's stand. The Stargate was not the only way to explore the galaxy. He had taken up astronomy almost by accident, after a late night conversation with Catherine soon after the first return from Abydos. She had spoken of her lifelong passion for the stars, and had described and named the constellations for him with infectious enthusiasm. That conversation had triggered long-buried childhood memories, recollections of sitting on the porch of his grandfather's house in the mountains while the old man told him the stories behind the patterns in the stars. That talk with Catherine had reminded Jack of something he had almost completely forgotten. It had awakened in him a sense of wonder he had thought was lost beneath layers of cynicism and grief. The next day he had bought the telescope, and written his letter of resignation.

Sometimes you find your own path, he thought. Sometimes it finds you.

He had been lucky. He had been lost, and somehow he had stumbled back on to the right path. Or had been guided back to it. By the stars, perhaps.

So, he asked the distant lights, if I'm so damn lucky, how come I can't sleep?

 

There was a simple answer to that, although he was reluctant to use the word, even in the privacy of his thoughts. Children had nightmares; grown men with careers and responsibilities did not. But, he admitted to himself, the reason why he was lying awake on his garage roof at half past two in the morning wasn't too many good dreams.

Frasier was right: they had been lucky. His dreams tonight- and in many recent nights- had shown him a place where that luck had run out.

Jack thought about that other possible world, one where Teal'c was dead, Daniel permanently blind, and Carter turned into an incubator for a Goa'uld larva. One where the Keltoi were slaves again. One where Horus had more resources than four Jaffa and one Glider.

He rubbed his fingers into his eye sockets, and made an effort to banish the dark thoughts. _C'mon, Jack,_ he told himself firmly, _quit brooding. You're not doing yourself any favours._

 

He sat up, wincing as the movement provoked a stab of pain from the stomach ulcer he would be nursing for some time to come. He replaced the cap over the telescope's lens and carefully twisted it into place. Then he swung his legs down over the side of the garage roof until his feet found the uppermost rung of the ladder balanced against the guttering.

As he began to climb down the ladder, he looked upwards one final time. The eclipse was long over, and the moon was just the moon again. It was no longer the black and sinister mass which had engulfed the sun in the sky over Cornwall. The night's single silver eye gazed impassively down on him.

Jack frowned. Something Daniel had said suddenly took on a new significance. One of Horus' many names: Horus-Foremost-One-Without-Eyes. The god worshipped as the face of the sky when neither the sun nor the moon could be seen. At the eclipse.

Jack had missed this eclipse; he had looked away as the Gate opened between the Stones and he had not seen totality.

There would be other eclipses.


End file.
